


I’ll See You In My Dreams

by spacebrock



Series: Stars, Devils, and Symbiotes [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Daredevil - Freeform, Guardians of the Galaxy - Freeform, Jazz Age, M/M, Marvel - Freeform, Multi, NMCU - Freeform, good news I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing either, gotg - Freeform, mcu - Freeform, venom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25643641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebrock/pseuds/spacebrock
Summary: It's the golden age of jazz in New York City; the endless possibilities presented through rose-tinted lenses that hide the gang warfare, bootlegging, and vigilante justice. Take a dive into the back alleyways of Hell's Kitchen, set your eyes on the heavens past the neon lights, and keep an ear to the ground for what's to come.Let the news light your way tonight.
Relationships: Eddie Brock/Matt Murdock, Eddie Brock/Peter Quill, Matt Murdock/Peter Quill
Series: Stars, Devils, and Symbiotes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859026
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. The Man in White

###  In the dark part of the city where lilacs still grew; watered by the excess from a tin roof, the sound of carts still clattered and clacked at the early hours prior to dawn. People rushed to and fro across the roads leading down to the docks, little awnings were set up for people to sell their wares, and progress was being made to widen the main streets for the automobile industry. 

Gulls gathered in the shady alcoves, keeping close eye on the fishmongers coming up from below. A church; humble and leaning, rested gently against the parish house that had seen better days [or knew that better days were coming], offset by a grocer from Sicily. The city worked together in the form of a patchwork quilt - a little burst of nature here, culture there, and everyone got along.

Or at least, that was the reputation Wilson Fisk had been trying to build.

A land of golden opportunities, he figured - prohibition in full swing, people needed to see  _ why  _ New York was on the rise - jazz was all well and good, but order was better. Music that contained itself; controlled itself: better. He was the conductor of a great symphony of progress, and its sounds carried far and wide before him. Those brave enough to try cracked jokes about how his size was a better prelude. They wound up the same as anyone else who disagreed with his vision - 

A scream broke the pre-dawn air as the blue light of a bleary-eyed day crept open on the horizon. In his line of sight, he could see the church more clearly now, the cross from the steeple knocked to the ground, and, strewn all around it, the figures of fallen men. Fisk’s gaze traveled up to the spire, but - naturally, it was empty. The whole roof was empty. 

This had happened the night before; but when the 6 o’clock shadows gave way to the first rays of day, the events of the evening prior became that much more obvious. 

But this was not Fisks’s vision. Not in the slightest. Wesley left his side, one hand already under his pinstriped jacket to reach for protective measures as-necessary. The dock workers he’d paid to roll liquor his way so he could control it; give it order, lay battered and bruised - but breathing. The cross; brass and sharp, sat askew in the cobblestones. It had fallen with enough force to stay there for a while.

So had all these men.    
  
Rum ran through the stony ground; washing blood and saliva away in its wake. Fisk followed the trail without moving; watching it all rush off into the East River. Soon the police would arrive and the scene would flood with more questions than he wanted to deal with.

This meant the shipment was - missing, and he was out six good men. 

“A pity,” was the only quiet declaration the Kingpin offered. Wesley appeared back at his side in a heartbeat. “Nothing? Mm.” The shake of his man’s head was disappointing, but - it wasn’t his fault. Stroking his chin, Fisk exhaled through his teeth and motioned with a hand for Wesley to follow.

“Let’s hope for a better outcome in Hell’s Kitchen this morning.” He knew the irony in his words as he said it, and smiled to himself. 

After all, a man in white was just what Hell needed.


	2. Observations in the Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's the most annoying reporter in NYC? It's this asshole. Thanks for your time.

###  “So the intent wasn’t to kill?” Exasperated, Mahoney glanced up from his work to flash the reporter standing at the edge of his crime scene an exasperated look. Eddie Brock didn’t even look slightly abashed, his shit-eating grin still in place as he waggled his pen in Mahoney’s general direction. Mouth set in a hard, thin line, the cop muttered, 

“No, it don’t seem that way.” Mahoney gestured to the ground around himself and cocked a brow. “You will note that there are no bodies.” 

“Already did.”

“I hate you, Brock.”

“Feelin’s mutual,” the other man hummed, jotting down a few notes. The street’s activity continued around them, the backdrop of the usual kind of busy day the city had by the harbor. Mahoney diligently made every effort to ignore the man pacing behind him, scritching away on his sheafs of paper - to no avail. The questions continued to litter down around him, all but audibly plinking off the crooked cobblestones. 

“So what’s it mean if you got all those bodies anyway? Walkin’, talkin’ bodies, no less - once they shook the stars outta their eyes, of course.” 

“We _ didn’t  _ \- “ Mahoney turned slightly as he crouched, the crooked cross tilted toward the heavens at a questionable angle. Blocking the direct route to God was Eddie, his silhouette obscuring the sun. Heaving a tired sigh, the detective rose to his feet, thumbs hitching under his coat and along his belt. “Didn’t get the bodies. Because they weren’t bodies, they were  _ unconscious  _ **bootleggers** . And once they came to, they scrammed. We didn’t have anything to hold them on, either - ain’t a crime, surprisingly, to just be unconscious in the street.”

“Unless you happen to be unacquainted with - “ Eddie flinched a little as Mahoney’s hand swung up to stop his words, a dark head bowing in exasperation.

“Don’t. Don’t say the name.” Eddie’s brows furrowed, and, with a little scoff, he adjusted a couple of papers that’d come loose in his notebook, muttering back:

“Ah, c’mon, what’s in a name? If we don’t use a name, s’got power over us forever. That’s why people’re invokin’ ‘god’ more and more these days.” He ignored the way Mahoney’s cheek twitched. Was that a vein jumping around in there, or teeth being ground? He would’ve gone in for a closer look, were he not acutely aware that he was  _ already  _ within punching distance. “Point is, if you’ve got someone for the big house - be it sleepin’ in the gutter or alleged crimes of smugglin’, normally, you’d be all about that, so - why now?”

“My hands,” Mahoney lifted both in mock-theatrics, “are  _ tied _ , Brock - just as yours might be if you don’t learn  _ when  _ to stop  _ talking _ .” Eddie blinked roundly at Mahoney, opening his mouth to respond - 

But faltered, eyes shifting from the angle the cross had fallen at [and the riled-up law enforcement behind it] to a third perspective. Under an awning, Eddie swore he could feel eyes on him - several pairs, initially, but when he finally clocked it, turns out, it was just one. One set of eyes, watchful and curious. 

The pair belonged to a beanpole with put-upon stoop shoulders, the shrug of a sheepish child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, the pile of apples the green grocer had just set out for the consideration of passersby. Hazel eyes ticked down, then back up, meeting blue. The interloper flashed Eddie a knowing smirk that the journalist then met with a disbelieving huff.

“What?” Mahoney snapped, and Eddie started back around, pulled from the reverie of a crime-in-progress. Impatient eyebrows arched. “You finally got a clue? Mark the day. Look - I don’t have anything for you, this is a crime scene, and if you don’t get out of here, I’m gonna get a chopper squad to send you off. Go talk to someone who actually  _ has _ someone in custody for the big house.” Eddie snuck a glance at the apple-cart awning once more, but the would-be-thief who’d been upsetting it in question had vanished. Probably wasn’t relevant to the case regarding Fisk’s men anyway. 

Unless…

“Where’ve I seen that face before?” Eddie muttered to himself - then, taking Mahoney’s pointed look to be an order,  _ not _ a suggestion, he packed up his tools and made tracks to find the one person he could always depend on…


	3. The Devil You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's Irish and he's over it. Meet New York's top defender...er...defense attorney...

###  "Matty, Matty, _Matty_ ," each repeating note was a red-hot spike of annoyance and agony into his right temple. Deft hands closed the notes in braille for the case, and, heaving a quiet sigh, Matt steeled himself for the inevitable encounter - another visit from the indomitable Eddie Brock.

"Mr. Brock," he addressed him directly - catching the fresh rush of ink, the faded paper, the coffee, and the rain of a wet street - as he turned, "I've asked ye before to call me -"

"Matt, right, sorry. And I'm Eddie, in case you've forgotten." A reluctant hook to the corner of his mouth threatened to turn into a full-blown smile. Serious as the reasons for their encounters usually were, Mr. Brock - Eddie - always found a way of making them a little bit lighter. Matt supposed that was his job. Matt's, on the other hand, was to enact justice.

A job easier said than done when he’d had a night like the one prior. 

"Bit tired today, Matt?" He started, realizing Eddie had asked him something.  _ Damn _ .

"Just a late night preparin’ fer t'e case." Truth, more or less. Nothing quite prepared the spirit like going to church and toppling a cross onto unholy men. He could feel the impact of Eddie's pen against the notepad, and sighed through his teeth. _ Heavy-handed bastard. _ He pitied the parchment. Just as he pitied the floor beneath Brock’s feet as he rocked and splayed, creaking on the wood. The waves of the sound beat against his brow, and Matt silently ticked the box marked  _ limited  _ next to the line about  _ patience. _

“Who’s the lucky defendant?” Matt sighed through his nose, fingers settling on the table for the defense. It might’ve looked as though he was steadying himself, when in reality, he was feeling for Foggy’s approach. Anything to eject him from the likely continuous torment of Eddie’s little inky pitchfork, prodding him for context. 

“No one I t’ink ye’d know,” he said, evenly enough. He felt Brock deflate a little; the air shifting with a slump of shoulders and disposition of cloth. Wasn’t his hat, though - no, that, Matt had noted, Eddie always removed to plop on the upraised part of the gallery banister whenever he realized Matt or Foggy was in the room with him. Didn’t take it off for the judge, nor the police, just - them. He still wasn’t sure what it was about the three or four [Matt knew it was four] cases Eddie had sat through of theirs that garnered such respect from such an unusual source, but he’d take it. For Foggy’s sake, if not his own. 

“Just a Mr. McDonagh, 47, of Hell’s Kitchen,” he admitted after letting Eddie stew for a minute or two. Denial was something Matt excelled at - be it withholding information or letting loose a particularly passionate left hook. “He’s been asked t’vacate his cobbling business under suspicious circumstances. Disguised as rent wit’olding.” 

“Matt Murdock, guardian angel.” The admiring smile around Eddie’s words shaped them oddly. Matt wasn’t entirely sure he liked the smirk any more than the way he liked the way the declaration raised the hair on the back of his neck. Another wave of ink, leather boots, and coffee hit him - and the gooseflesh redoubled with the realization that dank water and lilacs followed suit after. 

Eddie had been  _ there. _

“Far from, Eddie,” he replied slowly, fixing his tie with a little fidget of his fingers. “I’m just too much of a devil fer most t’deal wit’.” Turning away to begin laying his notes out, Matt made a shooing motion with his hand. He could figure out potential evasions in conversation later. “Now, whatever it is ye’re chompin’ at t’e bit t’ask me, I must ask in turn t’at ye go take a seat. We can reconvene when court adjourns.”

“Sounds darb to me, Matt,” it was far too agreeable a statement from the usually-yappy journalist. “You’re such a sheik when you get all official.”  _ Aye, yeah, there it was _ . Matt rolled his eyes behind his tinted glasses, finally catching the scent and movement of his partner’s approach as Eddie plucked his hat from the railing to saunter off in the direction opposite. 

_ All official, huh? _ He slid out of the way of Foggy’s blustery entrance, the bruises on his knuckles finally feeling a little bit of their delayed strain as he shifted his papers toward himself again. Like counting cards, he figured - all official, and  _ all in _ .

_ Time to make a different kind of deal. _

The Devil was good at that.


	4. Danger in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter stage left the completely unproblematic, insanely beautiful, always practical...well. You know what. He's pretty and he's pretty chaotic. All genders please give it up for Peter Quill.

###  The jazzy movements of the club always made Peter fidgety. The desire to dance tapped away under his skin, expelled for the time being through his fingertips against the polished surface of the speakeasy bar. Hat crooked on his head, smile crooked on his face, he watched the musicians on the stage with a longing unmatched by anything. 

Beside him, just a few feet away, Yondu quickly and quietly dealt with unclaimed alcohol; the crates of which had been left outside the Starship following the interception of a certain bigwig’s men. An efficient rebranding of the labels and a stripping of lettering from the crates, and  _ presto. _ Peter snapped his fingers both at the thought and at the music; the rhythm of which continued to shake in his bones. One foot was in on it, now, too - tapping away on the floor. 

They’d made sure to cover their tracks, and the liquor paved the way for a new connection or two.  _ Rivers flowed into deltas, and sooner or later, they’d all be swimming in a sea of money _ . That was how Yondu put it, anyway - Peter, who’d spent a great deal of time around bodies of water, decided he didn’t mind the metaphor. Though he’d happily take an actual stream over the idea of itchy paper any day. 

“Boy,” Yondu clapped a hand on his shoulder, jarring Peter out of his thoughts and back into the moment. Thoughts of channels faded away, replaced by the warm glow of gas lamps and brass. High collar upturned, Yondu appeared to be stepping out - accompanied by a couple of his followers, the people Peter’d come to think of as family, in a roundabout sort of way. “We’re goin’ out back to discuss where t’move things.” Peter cocked a brow, opening his mouth - but Yondu held up his free hand. “I know how it sounds. Don’t worry.” The hand dropped, patting one of three pockets Peter knew Yondu had a weapon [who knew how many others there were, officially]. 

“Ain’t goin’ alone,” he concluded with a small squint that was  _ almost  _ a wink. Peter relaxed a little. “Just wait here, keep a sharp eye till we’re back.” 

“Berries to me,” Peter agreed, and watched as the Ravagers fanned through the middling crowd, people still trickling in through the dam that was comprised of two bouncers at the door. With a finger, Peter motioned for a glass of gin - their own stuff, no bathtub regrets or half-boiled shoe polish. The girl behind the counter poured, and Peter granted her what he felt was a truly dazzling smile. What he got back was a dimpled grin and a roll of brown eyes, but hey, he’d take it. 

He swung around on the stool with a swivel like a scarecrow blown about on its pole, one leg flying up to cross over the other. The hat left his head in a plucky pluck, cast contritely on the counter. Sprawled with elbows against the bar behind him, Peter did intend to keep an eye on things - though to him, that meant getting to zone out listening to music till trouble presented itself. Yondu knew that, most of the Ravagers knew that, hell, even Peter himself knew that. But they weren’t expecting much of a conflict tonight, not with so many of Fisk’s men down for the count.

What  _ had  _ happened, anyway? Peter’s brows furrowed as he thought back to the night before.

Things had seemed normal enough. The plan had been to intercept Fisk’s men themselves; gather the crates, and relabel and redistribute to accommodating buyers as they’d just done. But once they’d arrived at the designated place Fisk’s men usually showed, the alleyway’d been empty. Yondu had tracked their movements back to the waterfront, but he’d hastened back to say things had gone south. No liquor, not a soul in sight other than those knocked to the ground with a big ol’ cross. Someone’d toppled half the steeple to stop those men, and taken the liquor besides.

So when it showed up outside the Starship’s front of Bowie Cargo, accusations had flown. A rogue Ravager? Somebody else? It wasn’t a mystery they had answers to, but they knew they had to act fast. Get striking while the iron was still hot, and all that jazz. 

Thus they’d done what they always did in times of crises - doubled down, got’er done, and made a boatload of money off the influx of good product besides. Why look a miracle in the mouth? They came so seldom in such a beautiful, if dangerous, city.

“Double please.” 

The voice to his immediate left was a gruff one, with a timbre that turned Peter’s head. It was the man from the pseudo-massacre this morning; the knockout amidst knockouts. He  _ knew  _ he’d recognized it. The man in profile was a scruffy one; with sandy hair and cobalt eyes like twin chunks of lapis. He received the two glasses from the bartender in weathered hands, and - 

Seemed to know Peter’d been staring, because he set the second glass of gin close to Peter’s nearest elbow with a dry comment of, “see somethin’ you like?”

Peter snapped his attention back to the stage for a second - then returned to look at the man still studying him from under his hat. 

“What’s not to like?” He countered with a bright and easy smile. Caught off-guard, the man to the left of him snorted, raising the gin to his lips. “You just bought me a drink,” Peter pointed out, rolling a hand to motion to the glass, “good start, honestly.” He dragged the scar on his lip beneath a canine and flexed his brows at the stranger, who shifted a little on his seat with a shrug of  _ point taken. _

“Brock,” he said after a moment, downing his drink like he had somewhere to be. Peter released his lip with a silent pop of surprise. The name rang a bell, but - 

“That a first or last name?” The gin-giver granted Peter a glance, then turned to face him more directly. His clothes, Peter noted, were rumpled - but nice enough, he supposed. No tie; no flashy adornments, other than a ring around his neck on a little black string, and a few on a couple of fingers. Not exactly a rich man, but rich enough to buy a stranger a glass of gin. Peter finished his first drink and reached for the second.

“Last,” the other man said finally, and offered Peter a hand. “Eddie. Eddie Brock.”

“Oh,  _ yeah, _ ” Peter exclaimed, clasping Eddie’s hand to pump it with a couple of firm shakes. “The writer.” Something shifted in Eddie’s expression, but it was gone too quick for Peter to notice. He was still holding his hand, grinning broadly. “You did that piece last month on the mayor. You really don’t care who you tick off, do you?” A small smile tugged at Eddie’s mouth, but with a motion for another glass, it was gone again. Peter pivoted back around on his stool, hands under his chin.

“I ‘spose I don’t. And you are?” 

“Oh - right.” Names. “I’m Peter, Peter Quill. Nice to meet you, Eddie; Eddie Brock.” This time there was no mistaking the amusement on Eddie’s face, even as he swallowed it with a mouthful of liquor. The soft croon of horns on-stage, the plink of piano keys, and the smoky voice of the lounge singer all swept across the room again, and people moved closer together to dance, cheek to cheek and obscenely close. With a more-controlled swivel this time, Peter switched directions, trying to keep both Eddie and the room in purview. 

“Do you always buy a quilt for a man you’ve just met, or…” Peter paused, a penny dropping. “You here for a story?”

“Maybe,” Eddie skirted around the topic as he pointed with two fingers behind the bar again. Two glasses were given, but this time, he kept them both to himself. “Not sure yet. Followin’ a lead.” Ah. So  _ this  _ was the trouble he’d been meant to keep an eye out for, maybe. Peter’s smile didn’t waver, but he did sit up a little bit straighter against the bar, flicking his hands up in an innocent gesture.

“And it led you to me? I’m flattered, but…” Going abruptly boneless, Peter slithered off the bar stool and jackknifed to his feet, walking backwards towards the dancefloor. “I’m just an Oliver Twist,” he said, delighting in the duality of the phrase - it’s true. Orphan and dancer. He was both, and more - and he could keep just as good an eye on the establishment from the dancefloor as he could at the bar. Eddie, to his credit, stayed motionless with his drink, other than to raise it in silent acknowledgment. 

“Not much of a dancer, Eddie?” Peter added, stepping back and forth, in and out of the throngs of people. The writer shook his head, raising his glass to his lips.  _ Well, I’ve been wrong before,  _ Peter acknowledged good-naturedly to himself. But a little distraction, a lot of deflection, and there wouldn’t be any more trouble than a nosy man with a pen in his hand - 

Who was abruptly in front of him, a sudden and stormy look on his face, drink back atop the bar. One rough hand found his elbow, and Eddie was tugging him toward the back exit. “Hey - whoa now, pal -”

“Close your head,” Eddie hissed, and Peter’s mouth flew shut, startled. “Somethin’s wrong. Just - trust me.” Peter glanced around the room of dancers and musicians, gangsters and shadows. Everything seemed typical of a Tuesday evening, the sub-basement speakeasy succumbing to the sounds of laughter and lazy bass. 

“Just trust me,” Eddie repeated, and pulled on Peter’s arm toward the back entrance. Peter, after a moment’s hesitation -  _ Yondu told me to wait  _ \- headed after Eddie, toward the storm cellar exit, back up into the alley. The blackness and secrecy fell away; replaced by the exposure of night air damp with the promise of rain. The stench of something foul. It felt  _ wrong. _

It was only out there that Peter could hear the telltale sound of a copper wagon, followed by the descent of boots on cobblestones. “How’d y-” and then, as abrupt as everything else that’d happened so far this night, Eddie’s hand was over his mouth and his back was against the darkest part of the sidestreet’s oil-stained brick wall. 

“ _ Anyone tell Mahoney we’re out here? _ ”

“ _ If he knows, he knows - if not, that’s not our problem. _ ”

“ _ You sure this is where we’re ‘sposed to be? _ ”

“ _ Glasses made it quite clear that it is. _ ” Peter, heart hammering in his throat, glanced down at the shorter man who’d inadvertently(?) stepped in to interfere with something he probably shouldn’t have. Eddie was a hunting dog with his head turned, eyes riveted to the corner where the lights were shining, as perfectly still as any part of the architecture. There was a crunch of wood and the sound of glass breaking, followed by the beginning of shouts.  _ A raid? _

“We need to clear out. You got somewhere you can go?” Eddie’s gaze swung back up to Peter, who nodded, speaking against his hand:

“Yeff-” Eddie peeled his fingers away and Peter scrunched his lips before whispering, “yes. But I need to find my people first.”

“No time. If they ain’t here, they might already be in the big house.” Peter’s stomach plunged, roiling the gin in his gut.  _ Yondu would never let himself be caught. _ He was too clever and slick for that. But the others - 

“Blouse,” Eddie ordered firmly. “Get out of here. Scram. I can spin the story. Tell’em they got the wrong place. Liquor’s gone already, right?” 

“How’d y-”

“This is what I do,” Eddie interjected impatiently.  _ Trust me, _ the silent addition said, through blue eyes bright in the darkness. Peter managed a nod, still aghast from how sharply left a turn his night had made. “Do what you do. Steal away.” Before Peter could even say anything, Eddie had broken off to start his march down the alleyway to intercept the officers, all of whom turned their lights on him. 

If the  _ Starship _ went down, at least it went down with a lifeboat on a sea of gigglewater. 

He snuck one last look at his unexpected savior on the streets, unaware that from above on the building adjacent, he had another -- one swathed in shade and fit to boil in a silent sea of wrath. A storm was rolling in off the water.

Peter Quill slunk back against the shadow of the alleyway, and, little by little, let the dark night devour him whole.


	5. Ashes to Stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew Murdock I will fight you myself put up your complicated dukes you complete Catholic nightmare  
> right. Matt gets a little too invested in a pet project.

###  “You can’t keep ignoring me forever, Murdock.”

Jessica Jones had the voice of an incessant bell. The way it rang down the courtroom hallway made him feel like he was back in the pit, listening to his father prepare for a fight. All around the two of them, Matt felt heads turn - a cascading wave of attention drawn toward Jessica; who stopped three and a half feet back [ _ three feet, six inches, but who’s counting? _ ]. She was clutching a document in her hands, hopefully one that’d be useful to him; if not, Foggy. The scent of bootleg she was still sweating out clung somewhere around her neck; a strand of invisible topaz. Matt smiled faintly to himself before turning.

“My apologies, Ms. Jones. Of course. I was just lost in t’ought.” So lost in thought he’d all but vaulted over the back of the benches in his exit of the courtroom today once he’d realized she was there, of course. One hand lifted to adjust the loop of the tie around his neck, one little tug. Just enough to give him some breathing room now that official business was over and dealt with. 

Jessica was closer now; he could feel the air work its way around her as she swooped up; nearly nose-to-nose with him. “Jesus,” she remarked, and Matt tilted his head away from her raised fingers; the heat of which stung more than if she’d actually touched him to begin with.  _ Danger. _ “What happened to your face?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Matt fired back; the good humor vacating his voice in an instant. There was a silence wherein the two beats allowed him to try and save face again; which he did, with a pleasant and practiced smile. “Hit my head on something, I suppose.”

“Not enough to knock any sense into you.”

“Did ye come here to insult me, or did ye actually happen to have somet’ing fer me?” The file was thrust into his hands as he expected, and Jessica huffed under her breath.

“Just some details on the Ravagers, in case you’d find that useful.” Matt went a bit still at that, his fingers fanning over the pages. She’d had them put into braille.  _ Good. _ A quick brush told him what he needed to know -  _ Peter Quill. _

Well, he already knew that. He’d just wanted confirmation. For the records. For - 

“Good news comes in twos, eh?” Matt shut his eyes and inhaled slightly, gathering every iota of self-control he had. The cocky voice was unmistakable, as Brock came around the corner toward himself and Jessica, the swagger in his step always off by a little stiffness around his hip. Matt could tell there was something there; some old injury, that occasionally flared. It sounded metallic, if he had to wager - but he found he didn’t care all that much. 

What he cared about was the fact that Eddie had interrupted the delivery of information - which, admittedly, Matt hadn’t been expecting - and now Jessica was closing off again [not that he’d been particularly welcoming to begin with - that one was on him]. 

“Hello - Jones, isn’t it?” Matt could hear the smile in Eddie’s voice; the way it turned his words saccharine and bright; like taffy. “I heard about your work with the Marconi family.” Jess’s pulse skipped a beat and Matt cursed Eddie’s inherent carelessness. That wasn’t a name you just threw around the city; even with the rest of the clan lying low. “You’re really somethin’ else, detective.”

“Don’t - go spreading that around, alright, but -” Jess managed something of a smirk in response, pulling her jacket around herself. The waft of liquor and something like shoe polish sifted through the air. It perfumed her hair as she pulled it back, neatly pinning it into place. Something more presentable, supposedly. She must’ve just rushed here from her house. All to get him information he’d tried to avoid; thinking it was something else entirely. Another mistake. Not that she was. It was complicated.

_ What wasn’t, _ in his world, he wondered, as one hand traced the swell of a knuckle and felt the bones tense beneath his skin. Eddie and Jessica’s words became background noise as he kept reading, a steady hand; cane against the wall for the time being. The marble and granite hall clicked with passing footsteps, murmured voices, rustling papers, and a dozen different fabrics -  _ one of which had indigo dye bleeding down the leg -  _ and a choir of heartbeats, some quick with dread, others steady with determination.

Foggy’s heart, in particular, was racing as he spoke to the district attorney down at the left end corner of the hallway. Matt cocked his head slightly to the side as his fingers found the words,  _ wanted in KY for robbery, wanted in MO for petty theft, wanted in Florida for erratic driving and endangerment of pedestrians, wanted in Tennessee for public disturbance -  _

“--should get goin’, but maybe we can catch up over drinks sometime,” Eddie was saying. Matt’s ears pricked up and he straightened, realizing a departure was at hand. Hopefully Eddie’s - he was the last person Matt wanted to deal with right now. The rhythm of his morning had already been thrown off enough, and he had court to get back to in twenty-eight minutes. 

“Thanks for the offer, but you can find me at my office,” Jess responded, and Matt fought back an unexpected smile. No one knew how to shut somebody down like one unmovable woman.

If only he could channel that now, as Matt turned more in Eddie’s direction; Jessica’s shoes adding to the series of clicks and clacks as she strode off toward the double-doors that led back out into the New York fray. Eddie; the unstoppable object, granted Matt a grin he felt prickle the air; the scent of coffee and cigarettes mingling bitterly between them.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Eddie said, simultaneous with Matt’s “I don’t have time for t’is.” 

They stopped; seizing one another up for a second or two, then Matt spoke first: apologetic; even if he didn’t fully mean it. 

“It’s just - it’s been a busy few days, Mr. Brock.”

“Eddie,” Eddie cut in, confusion evident in his voice. 

“Eddie. Right, of course.” Matt fixed his face; smile purposefully contrite. “Ye know how cases can be.”

“This seems pretty open and shut to me,” Eddie pointed out, and Matt’s mouth twitched something fierce; fighting to control his expression. “Simple case’a burglary, this one, a smashed window, a stolen kilo of sugar. The window was smashed from the inside; indicatin’ it’s someone who works in the grocer’s.”

“Oh, so ye’re a lawyer now.” Eddie shifted back on his heels at that, and Matt heard the way he swallowed; sharp and aggravated.

“Did I do something to offend you recently? Because if so, it wasn’t on purpose. Usually aim for on purpose when I’m tryin’ to offend. And I’d prefer to be told if I have.”

“...ye’ve done naught to offend, Eddie.” This time Matt tried a little harder at sincerity. His smile whittled down at the edges to something less forced, and his expression warmed a bit behind his tinted spectacles. “Far from.” To offend would be purposeful, wouldn’t it? And as far as he knew, nothing Eddie had done had been on purpose. If anything, he’d been doing his job. Which apparently was to get in the way, much like he was doing now. 

Matt felt the distance close as Eddie came nearer, and felt in himself the echoing raise of hackles. The coffee-leather cloud that crept in closer was now stained with ink and alcohol; older things that blurred together with sweat and cotton. And under all of it, something else - something that reminded him of the men who took the stand with shrapnel under their skin, injuries still healing. The smell of a bruise was that of crushed blood vessels, pigment made pungent. 

It was like that, and it wasn’t. 

“Is there something I can do?” For once, Eddie’s words were much more composed; quiet. Sincerity tightened the cello string of his voice; tuning it with compassion. It was enough to give Matt pause, another wave of confusion hitting the wall of stubbornness he didn’t remember laying bricks down for. Then again; some people might’ve claimed he was just born stubborn. Jessica Jones, for one. 

But before he got into that hole too deeply, Matt answered Eddie: “no, no. Not’in’ to be done but a case to be won. T’en maybe I’ll sleep a bit sounder.”

Eddie took a sharp breath that sounded like a bullet being fired in reverse. The terse sound reverberated; made Matt’s hair stand on end, and he settled a hand over the top of his cane more firmly than before. Eddie took another step in and Matt now felt the heat radiating off his skin. A fever; maybe. He didn’t smell that kind of sick. If anything, the scent wasn’t entirely off-putting. Just surprising. It was why Matt ended up holding still against all odds. And against the encroaching onslaught that was that damnable man. 

The smile curled a touch too far and landed on sneer territory. 

“You don’t haveta tell me what’s goin’ on,” Eddie said flatly, “but you also don’t haveta pretend with me. I can see through that bull. And I know you can see through mine.” Matt cocked a brow. “You KNOW what I mean, Murdock!” 

“I don’t,” Matt said, far too pleasantly. “But I would appreciate it if ye kept yer voice down. T’ere’s people trying to work.”

“That’s what I’ve come here to do. I was hoping to at least get a statement from ya for the trial, but you’re -“

“Very busy,” Matt cut in smoothly. The bones under Eddie’s skin shifted as he ground his teeth. Matt’s sneer had swept itself back into an impish smirk. 

“I was gonna go with difficult.”

“I’d be delighted t’provide a statement after appointed court hours,” Matt said lightly. “But seeing as...” he pulled back a sleeve as if to indicate a watch, and the air moved with Eddie glancing down at his own wrist, then cursing quietly under his breath. Tricked twice for the price of one, apparently. Matt’s brow furrowed, however - Eddie’d had a watch last they spoke, hadn’t he? One that ticked six minutes short of the hour. But now that wrist was silent. Something about the movement hurt him, too - Matt could tell that the sweat was half exasperation, half twinge of discomfort. 

Someone had been at Eddie Brock - that’s why he smelled the way he did. Was acting extra aggressive; possibly, too. Roughed up. 

Beaten, at the very least, but standing. 

Matt thought about that, then let it go. Really wasn’t his problem. 

Or it would’ve been, but the wall was a bit tall to see beyond right now. 

“I’m due back inside fer t’e next stages o’ t’e trial. Maybe tomorrow we can discuss statements.”

“Tomorrow?” The incredulity in Eddie’s voice was tinged with something a lot like anxiety. Odd. “That’s - really, you can’t just gimme five words?”

“...alright,” Matt said, and leaned in slightly, lowering his voice: “stay. Out. Of. My. Way.”

Drawing back from shock that tasted like a salt lick; the result of some nervous reaction, Matt left Eddie alone in the hallway and did what he did best. 

—

Matt got to work. 

The rival gangs on the riverbanks who traveled by night to steal Ravager stock had yet to learn. Matt knew they were the same men as before; their gunpowder the type that was kept in old oaken barrels that previously held corn or oil. The scent crept under the wet muck of the Hudson and dragged the mud with it on cobbled shoes; carefully stuck together with little iron nails. One man squeaked hard to the left; a bad lean. War injury. He was missing a chunk of his hip, but all the strength lived now in his broad chest and shoulders. It was why he was able to raise a Ravager crate above his head and haul with minimal effort. Were it not for the injury or the shoes, he might’ve been relatively subtle. 

He traveled with three other men, and two waited for them at the location in Hell’s Kitchen Matt knew all too well. Josie kept...he would’ve said a fine establishment, were it not for the liquor that felt like corrosive kerosene going down, the inhospitable landscape, the underwhelming welcome from the lady herself, and, perhaps most offensive, the floor that stuck like tar to his soles. 

It was Hell on Earth, and it claimed its damned till they got driven out to torment the regular folks not kept in the shadows. 

Head cocked to one side, face half-covered, Matt slid a hand over the edge of the building he perched on and leaned in. He counted steady hearts; one, two, three, four - and one uneasy pulse. The turncoat Ravager; waiting to bestow is he goods he’d gathered to those approaching like horsemen of the apocalypse. 

“We greet you,” the big man said, in a voice like a rolling cart, “in the name of the Magus.”

“And uh. With thy spirit,” the Ravager turncoat replied. There was a silence, followed by a mutter, rainwater on rocks. “Horsefeathers. Ain’t that it?”

“Close enough.” Matt could hear the smile of amusement in the other man’s voice. “You did well. I count six crates. Not bad. The Universal Church of Truth is grateful.”

“And Retch will be grateful with payment.” There was a rustle; a jingle, a satisfied clench of fingers around a velvet pouch. Matt inhaled slowly. There was a sweet scent on the air - something sugared that didn’t belong. Approaching East. 

“Retch! There you are.” The hand on the building’s gutter tightened to burst. Matt’s heart dropped to the bottom of the river. 

Around the corner, the source of the sweet smell came, propelled by long legs good for running, accompanied by a lackadaisical swing of arms. Cigarette smoke clutched the wayfarer, clinging like a lover overlaid across the mallow flavor of the air. Fog cloyed it further, everything turning saccharine from how the speaker’s sweat from his jog up the street permeated everything. 

Maybe Matt was just more attuned to it now. It’d been a few months of tracking these movements; these people. He’d gotten to know them as new players in his neighborhood, men who shifted shadows between them and stole secrets at gunpoint. Nothing new there. Nothing, save -

“Whoa!” Matt heard the click of guns as they rose into the air; a call to arms in the form of a silent understanding:  **_intruder_ ** . He cursed internally and swung off the building, a silent descent. Death in the darkness, falling fast and focused. All to stop ruffians and thugs from blotting out the man that felt like human sunlight. 

“Fellas,” Peter Quill was saying sheepishly, one hand up in a vain effort to diffuse the situation, the other creeping toward his hip. The air displaced the movement; a dead giveaway in the thickening mist. “I don’t see why we can’t just come to the very reasonable conclusion that -“ Peter got his gun free and the firearms aimed at him all took their safeties off at once. The grin he must’ve had tainted his next words: “you’ve all made a serious misstep when dealing with Star-“

He didn’t get to finish his thought. He didn’t even get to take his own safety off. What Peter Quill got; instead, was a figure in dark clothing landing squarely on Retch to his immediate left. The gun went off and Peter flinched, one arm wildly windmilling -

Matt ducked the arm and in one fluid movement, cast the other man’s gun aside. The bullet he’d redirected into the nearby alleyway rolled across cobblestones. A gas lamp hissed to life; casting a phantom heat at his back. He swerved to avoid Peter’s reactionary jab, and, with a swift shove, dislodged Quill to the crates that’d previously been the point of this venture. 

The big man came for him next, as Peter tumbled up and over the boxes of alcohol with a squawk of protest. Matt tilted out of the way of a couple wild shots, then snapped out a hand to grab the lamp post nearby. One deft swing and he was off the ground, feet ramming hard into the Truther’s chest to knock him into his nearest companion. Matt swiveled through the bullets with effortless grace; letting them sing in the air around him. He himself was a loaded gun, and he landed blows with near-lethal precision. 

_ Near-lethal _ , he had to remind himself. His knuckles popped a rib out of place and his fingers twisted a wrist so hard and sudden the bone cut through the flesh. 

“You’ll live,” the Devil muttered through his mouth as he swung down out of the way of a wild blow.

Behind him, and beyond the crates, Peter had gotten back up to his feet. Matt could hear the shuffle of oversized shoes, the faint flick of a trenchcoat that had threadbare edges to it; fraying. There was a swish and a stretch of tendons as Peter raised his gun.

Matt switched tactics immediately, one hand diving down to the crates. A loose board snapped in one hand with ease and he flicked it with precision, pinging the gun clean out of Peter's hand.

"No killing."

" _ D'ast and blas _ t," Peter spit, clutching his hand before shaking it out - and stooping to retrieve his gun in a stroke of luck Matt might've considered just about unholy. A bullet whizzed past overhead and made the brick behind Peter burst; a confetti of dust and debris that coated the air. Matt caught the low awning echoing with the ricochet ping overhead and lashed out, legs wrapping around the offender's neck and rolling them both to the ground. Once there, his fist met the other man's face - once, twice - he lost count after that.

The only thing to interrupt the demonic onslaught was the hand that grabbed his arm to haul him back. Big guy was up again. Retch had fled; the coward, taking his sour stink with him down the block. Peter was in fisticuffs with one of the other Truthers. Matt had successfully slept the one currently face-first on the slick tarmac, though that was a short-lived victory. The large man managed to get a hold on him; slamming him with ferocious force into the same surface. Matt tasted blood as he bit his tongue, ears ringing.

"Who are you to meddle in our affairs?" The large man said, tone almost amused. "The Church of Truth brings light to the darkness." Matt's smile flashed and he knew it was red, he could feel it behind his teeth.

"Call me t'e  _ Devil _ ," he breathed - and threw his weight forward with a kick of his feet, lashing out and sending the big man stumbling back once more. "I work best in t'e dark." There was a ringing chime as something glass was flung into the air, and Matt had a split second to move out of the way before - 

**BOOM** . A burst of rum flooded the streets; notes of molasses and oak whizzing off through the air. The gunshot was close, close enough to make his ears pop again, and Matt ground his teeth as he switched gears and caught the sloppy swing of another man's arm. Catch - and release, as Matt's other hand flew out to knock the wind from the attacker's lungs, followed by a drive into his chin. The culprit dropped back with a stagger and the large man, now liquor-lathered, roared after the man who called himself  _ 'Devil' _ .

Matt allowed every ugly sin he kept quiet by these means to show in the smirk that tugged just a bit too far to be fully human. The big man came after him and - 

A body dropped to the ground. Unconscious. Matt could tell that much - before Peter's voice, quite close to Matt's ear, intoned:

"Hey, knucklehead - I think you forgot to pay your tab!" There was another burst of glass and an explosion of rank liquor, and Matt shifted back sharply on his feet to avoid coming in direct contact with the stuff. On a twirl of his toes, he was nearly nose to nose with Peter - the result of an arm swinging out to stop his swift exit.  _ Peter Pan pinning down his shadow at last. _

"Who ARE you?" Peter asked quietly. Matt's heart pounded in his ears. Shit. It was never meant to go like this. He was just - listening in. Following leads. Tracking gang territory and keeping watch over his city by night. This was what he had to do. 

It was...blurred now with what he wanted to do.

Which was....?

In the peak of adrenaline and blood; sweat and the stench of liquor, Matt hovered on the precipice of actually answering the question. In the distance, he could hear someone crooning on a record-player - Ma Rainey. The same song he'd heard Peter singing along to, the first night he'd wandered into Matt's city. An unmistakable voice. Bright and sweet. Honey and lemon in chamomile tea. A balm for an otherwise dreary town that'd had just about enough of the sunshine. Peter brought it back in droves despite the dark world he now inhabited - or perhaps had for a while.

"...Why din't ye kill t'ose men?" Matt asked suddenly. Peter started, apparently closer than either of them had realized. 

"...You told me not to," he answered, and Matt could tell from the steadiness of his heartbeat that the words were no lie. His lips pressed together, and he sighed through his nose, about to answer Peter's previous query, when:

"Are you actually the devil?" Peter inquired. Matt stayed silent for a second or two, then raised his brows beneath the covering on the top part of his face. 

"...Not to you," he answered simply, then ticked his head slightly to the left. "Three bulls headed down Broadway toward you. They'll be around the corner in eight minutes. Maybe ten. Take what you can and get out of here, Peter." 

Peter, who'd swung around to look behind him at the mention of policemen, blinked owlishly. The streets were wet; empty, and bloody, running with the spirits in the gutters. A dog barked somewhere out there in the distance, and the haze was starting to clear. Rain was overdue to come back soon.

"How'd you know my - " Peter turned, and, like he'd never been there to begin with, the man in the mask was gone.

So, Peter did what he always did when he needed to live first and ask more questions later:

He stole away with what he could carry and remembered, this time, not to look back.


	6. Beaten to the Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no homo except when it's a boxing ring and sometimes shit happens  
> Eddie Brock Seeks Information In the Worst Possible Way; Incenses Devil himself, More @ 11.

###  Days passed after that, as they often did. 

The trailing tempests off the harbor left more rain and cooler temperatures for a little while, and activity continued out of the line of sight. Off the streets, the jazz clubs gathered, and bootlegging continues in earnest. There was a missing player in the midst; however - the Church of Truth, radicals from the Northwest Territories that had recently made their way to the city, were silenced. Not even a stamp on a bottle. It was as if they’d evaporated with the fog on the river one day. Quick as they came, they dispersed. Gangs died on the vine in New York. Couldn’t have a vineyard in the city, after all - too many people harvesting too much; too often. Everyone took what they could and crushed it. Grapes, hops, and all. 

Hopes and dreams were like that too, which is why Eddie relied on neither. If anything; he leaned into the pressure - pushing back, one angry word at a time. 

And he’d had a lot of angry words lately. In-between smoothing over criminal conflicts and tracking the movements of the city’s underbelly, Eddie found himself writing more and more regarding the court cases of localized crimes. The cases Matthew Murdock covered, for example. Little things in the community he maneuvered with more finesse and kindness than most might’ve. Something about the way he conducted the courtrooms was magnetizing. Every moth in the closet was pulled out of their darkness and drawn to his flame. 

Eddie cursed himself for being one such insect. 

It was evident to Eddie that Matthew was volatile anyway - much like fire, he could turn an accuser to cinders with a few carefully-chosen words. He’d reduced Eddie himself to ash but a couple days prior, all because he’d pried too close and come on too strong. But there was pressure from all sides - newspaper, circles of inequity, streets up to top brass. The whole town was on-edge because some fella like Satan was scouring the streets and shaking things up. The gangs were on edge, everyone two seconds from knifing each other in the back. They were like that anyway, but the thing about anything religious was that it had a tendency to show who was and who wasn’t ready to meet their maker. 

Eddie didn’t have much use for religion. It sold stories when it needed to; and it’d been the crutch his father leaned on when extolling punishments. It got its shepherd crook around the necks of the public as it tried to steer them away from jazz and liquor. Those were things of sin, after all. 

Finishing his scotch and a cigarette listening to the saxophone in Shirl’s, Eddie found he couldn’t agree more. Nothing this good was ever holy, as far as he knew. 

So what if he was a man of worldly means? So what if he had to conduct himself through New York’s limbo; her purgatory plight? He was trying to survive in the light till he got fully claimed by the darkness. Same as so many. 

So when he got up, Eddie made the decision to head out into the gathering night and seek a few words with Matthew Murdock. A spark or two to keep the lights on a bit longer. If it burned, that’d be the price, and he was more than ready to pay it accordingly. His price in flesh for his foolishness was never far from him. 

Bruised beneath his clothes, favoring one foot, Eddie stalked to one of a few places that particular ghost was known to haunt. 

Fogwell’s Gym was a sweaty, rundown corner of nowhere in Hell’s Kitchen. What little illumination it had primarily came from outside sources. The few souls there were more beaten than the bags they tackled, slow moving; slogging through their own humidity. Eddie plucked his hat from his head as he entered, ignoring most of those who were winding down for the day’s end. 

Matt, on the other hand, was only getting started. 

When Eddie found him, he was adjacent to the ring, his back to the reporter. A good look at developed shoulders told him what he already knew - Matt had been at this a while, which made sense, given what Eddie’d picked up about him here and there. About his dad and the depths of the furnace that was this side of town. Men were either forged in it, or they got burned alive. No wonder he carried that fire with him into the land of law vs. the lawless. 

“Matthew,” Eddie crooned, arms slung over the ropes of the ring that separated them. He watched as an uppercut against the bag slowed significantly; traced the shape of the deltoid as it delved back into place. Matt didn’t answer initially, instead clobbering the bag from the other side; wrapped hand tensing knuckles against leather. Eddie huffed and set his hat on the ring’s nearest pole, shrugging with both hands. “Not even a hello? Now  _ I’M _ offended.”

At this Matt did still; properly, his hands clutching the bag as it swung violent from the most recent blow. His breath came in a short hiss of annoyance before he turned, his smile cast in Eddie’s direction. 

Before he could even open his mouth to speak, however, Eddie made a  _ you’re done _ sort of a motion, his hand coming up to the ropes once more after miming a slice or two under his chin. “Nuh-uh. Don’t give me that crap.”

“What crap?” Matt laughed in spite of himself, startled. “I’ve not even said anyt’in’ yet!” His hands found his hips as he breathed, the restless energy still kicking around inside of him. The Devil wanted so badly to be let out; the feeling only amplified by the presence of Eddie. Dennis and Frank were already heading out the door - Matt would lock up like he always did, once he’d rid the gym of its unexpected guest. 

_ His  _ unexpected guest. 

“It’s all in the smile,” Eddie said, leaning back and letting the ropes keep him upright as he stretched on the floor, lazily peering Matt’s way through the space between them. Matt caught the stink of smoke and liquor as Eddie swayed to and fro, and the Devil lashed out within, adding a layer of heat to his words:

“‘Ave ye come ‘ere to talk about my smile, or did ye actually need somet’in’? Because I’ve not finished my routine, and I’d appreciate being left alone to do so. Ye know where to find my office and where t’e court is. I’d ask t’at ye don’t actually bother me ‘ere.”

“See, that’s just the thing,” Eddie snapped, bristling as Matt pulled himself easily up and over into the ring itself. He spoke up to him, a man half-shouting into the heavens as Matt began to box the air instead, quick and earnest punches. “You don’t talk to me anymore. Not at the court, I’ve been turned away at your office by - what’s her face - Karen, and now? Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“I’ve naught anyt’in’ t’at’ll be useful t’ye,” Matt murmured, turning away from Eddie slightly to keep working out his tension; unfazed. “Ye can ask Foggy fer my reports.” 

There was a shift in the air and a thump as Eddie, fed up with this, launched himself promptly off the ground and into the ring. Matt froze, then swiveled on his heel, head cocked. He could taste the ire that spiked up the adrenaline and heat under Eddie’s skin, the prickling rush of sweat and intensity mounting. His tongue darted over his bottom lip. “What’re ye doin’, Eddie?”

“Joining you. Because if ye can’t beat’em, well...” There was a shuffle as Eddie shimmied out of his coat and cast it aside. Another two shifts as he shoved his sleeves up over his arms, fading cologne mingling with the motion at hand. “That last bit actually remains to be seen. Let’s talk and dance.”

“Ye don’t want t’fight a blind man, do ye?” Matt asked, sarcasm filling his words to the brim. “Feels a bit unfair, doesn’t it?” Eddie’d responding laugh resounded like a shotgun; sharply bursting. 

“If you fight as well as you talk, I think I’m in trouble. Should be fair enough. I’m not much of a fighter, but -“ Matt’s knuckles cracked him square in the ribs and Eddie staggered back with a wheeze - then just-barely managed to swerve out of the way of an upraised leg, Matt pivoting on the ball of the foot opposite in order to wheelhouse. Eddie’s surprise struck them both - Matt responding with a flicker of glee under his focused ire, Eddie with a rush of fear that butted heads with - something else. 

If Matt didn’t know better, he’d swear it was desire. 

He didn’t have much time to think on it, though. Eddie threw a sloppy hook and he blocked it with ease, hand whipping up to deflect with a slap to his forearm. The next punch was a weak right jab and Matt sighed with impatience. Eddie was holding back. 

“Didn’t ye want to ask me somet’in’?” He teased idly. If he could distract him, maybe this would end up being half a fair fight. Curious that Eddie seemed to already consider him a better fighter [which, of course, he was]. It hadn’t been a joke, either. That was the oddest part. 

So: what did he know? Matt’s hands tightened against their confinement as Eddie swung out again. This time Matt swung back. Block, parry, pop. His elbow bapped Eddie hard in the face and the reporter swore. 

“The McInney case. The botched bank job. Just needed to confirm the leak was an inside man.”

“And why is t’at?” Matt breezed, sidestepping the next blow with a pirouette of bare feet. “Fer yer news or fer the ot’er t’ings ye do?” Eddie jolted at that, Matt could feel the vibration through the soles of his feet. The Devil drew his grin this time; the wink of a blade against his face. 

“The hell do you know about what I do?” Matt whipped back in an easy way as Eddie stumbled by, and kicked hard - throwing the reporter against the ropes of the ring with a springing burst that made the air ring. Eddie sucked in a breath and Matt was on him in an instant as he turned, foot whipping across his face to send him sprawling across the mat. 

“I ‘ear t’ings.” Matt said, completely honest. Eddie lay on the floor for a moment, then started to rise. Matt shoved a foot against his chest and knelt to follow, one hand hauling back into a bound fist of bandages. “T’ings t’at tell me ye stick yer nose where it don’t belong.” His fist swung down and snapped hard across Eddie’d jaw. The reporter cringed as his lip split. Matt struck him again, the other side, this time. “It’s goin’ to catch up t’ye, Eddie. T’e Ravagers aren’t meant to be meddled wit’.” Nor was any other gang, but - that one stood out. For the danger. For the amount of people they employed. 

For one man in particular. 

“Let me up,” Eddie said suddenly, giving a thrash beneath Matt that did little to dislodge him. “Now.”

Matt arched a brow. “Make me.” He whipped out another blow, one that clicked bone like a bullet being loaded into a gun. 

And though Matt couldn’t see it, Eddie Brock went slightly dead behind the eyes. 

All at once, his world shifted - Eddie rolled forward and upright like Matt weighed nothing whatsoever. It sent a brief thrill of shock through Matt for a moment or two -

Before he found himself slammed back into the floor with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. The flash of pain across his face was just as abrupt, Eddie hitting like a shovel swung by a gravedigger. Matt gasped with the force of it, bringing his feet up to kick Eddie off before rolling backwards up to rising, hands raised. Eddie’s pulse was a drum that promised war, and Matt was prepared to give him one. 

“Now where’s t’at been t’is whole time, huh?” Eddie didn’t answer, which wasn’t like him at all. All he did was march forward. Matt rolled his hands a little in the air; fisticuffs circling. Vultures preparing for carrion. “Eddie?”

This time, Matt barely avoided the blow. He felt the air all but sizzle as the fist flew by his face. The second one he had no choice but to catch. “Eddie,” Matt tried again, genuine concern overriding anything else. His skull shot off fireworks as Eddie bashed his brow against Matt’s own, and he dropped back against the side of the ring for a second while Eddie swung wide again. 

His scent had changed. Fear; Matt realized. Ugly and metallic, it bled through his actions and roiled through the air. Eddie, mute and mutinous, continued his purposeful advance after Matt. Like a soldier. Like...

Oh. __

_ Like a  _ **_soldier_ ** _.  _

Matt wound back as Eddie stomped forward, and, with a quick flip off the floor, brought his legs down in a twist around Eddie’s neck. The effect resulted in Eddie's skull cracking against the mat, and him briefly going limp. Matt breathed, feeling the tension dwindle out of Eddie's frame. Just as quick as it came, the storm had passed. 

After a moment or two, Matt felt Eddie stir again, and, detaching, rolled instead to right their positions in a straddle over him. One hand held Eddie’s hands at bay above his head, the other gripped the front of his shirt with a vengeance. 

“...Eddie-“ Matt started to say, breathing still a little ragged, but found his words instead cut off by Eddie’s own, oddly faint:

“Did I hurt ya, Matty?” That gave him considerable pause. “...sorry. Matt,” Eddie's voice, a little stronger now, corrected itself with a wince Matt could feel travel the length of his body. He’d have a disc out of place, no doubt, from the angle at which he’d struck the ground. Matt held him down, and the hand around his shirt loosened a little, traveling higher. Driven by the Devil. 

“No,” he lied, brow furrowing. His fingers ticked over Eddie’s pulse unnecessarily. He could already feel it. And hear it. But under his hand, the staccato anxiety slowed somewhat. His thumb arched over the Adam’s apple. Eddie went a bit stiller beneath him. “Not fer lack o’tryin’, t’ough.” He didn’t move. Needed to make sure Eddie was truly himself again. Even though the heightened fright had ebbed, and Matt was left bathing in the stink of sweated-out alcohol, tobacco smoke, black coffee, and leather. Copper tinged everything now, cloyingly congealing. 

“You mentioned the Ravagers,” Eddie rasped finally. It was Matt’s turn to halt; faltering. The hand around Eddie’s throat tightened marginally. “Why?”

“...like I said,” Matt murmured, “I hear t’ings.” The heartbeat under his hand quickened its paces. Eddie sniffed a little, blood crusting as it dried. 

“From clients?” A loophole. Matt took it not to be a noose. 

“Maybe. Privileged confidentiality if so.” Eddie’s chuckle racked his fingers, running electricity down his veins. 

“Why are you angry with me, Matt?” Eddie asked, suddenly sounding tired. “I can tell that you are. I ain’t as dumb as you think I am.”

“I don’t t’ink ye are dumb, Eddie,” Matt muttered. His thumb curved across the artery of Eddie’s neck, and he leaned in, letting the Devil speak for him. “I just t’ink ye get in too deep and don’t know what’s good fer ye.” 

“And you know what’s good for me, Matthew?” The challenge in his words was a soft taunt at best. Matt didn’t usually rise to them, but some part of him rioted; blood-filled and attentive. He shifted slightly on Eddie; an agitation. A desire to move again. A fight or -

His tongue slipped into Eddie’s mouth as he felt lips part below his own. He’d gotten too close. The sin that singed his skin burnt the pages on the books he’d memorized that told him this was unholy at best. Eddie’s mouth opened up more, and Matt lost himself to the sweet entanglement better than any juicy apple in the orchard garden. His was a result of New York; busting up through concrete jungles. Eddie snagged his bottom lip with his teeth and Matt felt the flesh shimmer with a shiver of desire. He could be the tempting thing; fruit on the vine. Shade in the sun. Bread in the desert. His hand around Eddie’s wrists flexed as Eddie’s fingers curled; hips rising lazily beneath his own. 

Then, realizing - like a child realizing after he’s touched a hot stove - Matt surged back and upright, leaving Eddie on the floor. 

Panic swept through him; a plunging deep current. He drowned in it; a frothing baptism of frenetic loathing. Prosecuted by doubt, he turned and plucked Eddie’s jacket and hat off the side of the ring to throw his way. They struck the floor and Matt wove his hands behind his head, turning away. 

“Stay away from me. T’at’s what’s best fer ye. Don’t -“ Matt snapped up a hand as Eddie got to his feet in a daze. “Touch me again. Let’s make t’at clear. And keep yer distance. T’ere’s not’in’ I can give ye to use fer any stories. Or any sources ot’erwise.” 

“... _ YOU _ \- you did that to  _ ME _ ,” Eddie burst out, and Matt brought a leg back to kick him. Hard this time. Eddie bounced off the ropes, gasping. Bringing his foot down, Matt kept himself at a distance less damnable. Not daring to get closer. 

_ “Get out.” _

“Matt - “ he slithered between the ropes as Matt lashed out again, a roar like a wildfire following his words:

**“GET. OUT!”**

More confused than he’d ever been, Eddie left. Matt stood in his own circle of hell; the ring of fire, and felt his reality slowly begin to collapse. 

_ What had he just done? _


	7. Stay Guarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoa oh here she comes  
> [actually here come a lot of people. familiar faces to some, I reckon. Enjoy!]

###  **In his time between wondering whether or not angels & devils were actually real and his long hours in the night bootlegging liquor, Peter took the time to get to know his new home. **

Reconnaissance, he’d told Yondu, who’d nodded acceptance and warned him not to get distracted. But how could Peter now, when there was  _ so much  _ to take in?

There was a baker on the corner called Watson - Watson's? - who made the softest creampuffs imaginable, to say nothing of the cider donuts in the Fall. The post office was shiny and new, with the promise of much to receive; even more to send. A little opium den that also served as a place of clairvoyance [something about seeing with more than your eyes; which he didn’t fully get, but hey] where he’d made a new friend - Mantis; they called her. A new grocer populated just a couple blocks down, this one a kind older woman who was trying to start fresh after the loss of her husband.

And then there was...Guard Dogs’.

It'd taken Peter a few tries to read the faded sign, but - it was so damned dark in the alcove the bar was hidden against. Understandably so, the last thing anyone wanted was to be obvious, after all. It looked like it'd been shuttered for years - when in reality, it'd been just a couple months since that Castle character had driven the Dogs of Hell out of town. Someone had chiseled messily over the original sign [another issue], resulting in its new name. 

Guard Dogs was...the kind of place people went when they had nowhere else to go.

With a squint at the sign suspiciously following a couple of rhythmic knocks, Peter felt the door locks give and pawed himself into the club. Serving during the day as a place for storage between the seedier parts of town and the nicer ones further up, Guard Dogs’ gave itself the reputation of a safehold. Strangely, Peter himself felt rather at home there. 

Well - if not at home, at rest.

Something in the way the saxophone player; Douglas, found the notes  _ so  _ sweetly, or how the strange, lanky bartender always knew what he needed - even if it wasn’t what he wanted at the time. Peter could always count on - what did they call him? Groot? - to give him the nectar goods; be they gin or water. Groot just instinctively knew which was needed.

And then there was the company. Most of the folks in the bar were, like many in this neck of the woods now, Irish. The loud banter and the bickering that consumed the room upon occasion settled across his shoulders like a friendly arm, jostling his attention from conversation to conversation. He’d been told his name was an Irish one; too, which is why they’d been so keen on his wheedling to get in - and, when he brought them the goods, well. That’d just given him the golden ticket he needed to keep coming back.

Let a stray in once, after all, and they have a tendency to stay. Throw them some scraps, and the feeling intensified.

“Hey, Rocket,” Peter chirped cheerfully as he swung up onto his designated seat; one between himself and another lonesome critter. The short man with the tensed jaw beneath his fedora gripped his drink a little more tightly. The gash on his lip curled with the motion of a sneer, and he downed the rest of his moonshine before motioning to Groot for another. “Rough day at the office?” Peter asked blithely, one hand finding his cheek and his elbow finding the bar. 

“Who’s askin’?” Rocket countered, glowering at Peter from under the brim of his hat. His legs dangled; too short to reach the floor. Peter had to bite back a little bit of a laugh. He knew the last time he’d so much as smiled at Rochetto - a name too difficult for most people to bother with - he’d wound up facedown on the floor with a gun to the back of his head.

Well - that was the risk he had to take. Or, didn’t have to take. Didn’t know he was taking? Regardless.

“Just - just a friend,” Peter tried. After all, they’d gotten past certain murder. That had to count for something. Rocket snorted; immediately obliterating the budding hope. 

“I don’t do  _ friends,  _ Quill -” He lifted a hand as Peter dug around in his coat for a second or two. Rocket’s other hand abandoned his empty glass to dive into his vest. Peter slowed his gestures, cautiously watching Rocket as he went for a weapon. “Especially those who never shut up.” 

“That’s not very nice,” Peter pouted - before producing a handful of bullets, shaken out of a little brown leather bag. Rocket sat up a little bit straighter on his stool, hand loosening on the gun beneath his pinstriped clothes. “‘Specially to someone who comes bearin’ gifts,” Peter drawled, and, one by one, lined the rounds up on the bar - twelve in total. Rocket’s dark eyes darted over the offerings, and, reluctantly, one hand snapped up a bullet, inspecting it close to his beady gaze.

“...these are new.”

“Freshly-minted,” Peter grinned. 

“Y’didn’t take’m from somebody.”

“Nobody who’s gonna miss’em.”

“They’re - Cicilian,” Rocket said, baffled. “How the  _ flark  _ did you obtain Cicilian copper-blend burst rounds for a Glistenti Model 1910?” Peter blinked and shrugged, working his mouth with a little squint. 

“I have my ways.” Silence descended between them, save for the  _ plink, tink, plink _ of Rocket scrambling to snatch up the other bullets, squirreling them away to wherever the rest of his well-hidden weapons lived. 

“...This don’t make us friends,” Rocket warned him, one finger jutting in Peter’s general direction. The growled words drew another smirk to Peter’s face, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. 

“Duly noted. But give it time, Rocket. Oh!” Peter lit up and sat up simultaneously as Groot creaked over the bar to set a tall glass of gin down in front of him. “Thanks, Groot.” There was a slow smile across the bald man’s long face, and he stretched leisurely back up to his full [considerable] height with a languid nod.

“I am Groot,” the rumbly voice declared, and Peter sighed inwardly.

“That’s - that’s what I hear, yes.” The gin he set against his lips tasted like starlight when he swallowed; bright and shimmering. Saxophone and clarinet danced notes out of the nook by the back end of the club, and Peter slouched against the bar with a lazy rock of his foot. One hand rose to tip his hat back, then entirely off his head. 

Just in time, too - if he had any manners, of course. If he did, they would’ve dictated he doff his hat anyway and get to his feet [though he stayed seated instead]. Over the threshold of Guard Dogs glided a figure in a long dark coat with a high fur collar. For the wildest moment, from the look on the woman’s face, Peter would’ve guessed the person wearing it had killed and trimmed the coat herself. But that couldn’t be right, surely?

Yet when she walked, the posture was unmistakable. She was a commanding presence that turned every head in the room, all eyes on her for a brief moment of pause amidst the typical clamor and clatter of glasses; the sounds of bluesy jazz. Her shoes were practical; the kind of things dock workers might invest in, rather than fine ladies. A proud, heart-shaped face and a broad, flat nose were elements of interest, as were eyes brown till they caught the light - then; little by little, they tinted gold. Peter sat, mesmerized, his mouth slightly ajar. 

It wasn’t for the reasons one might think, though. Raven-haired and radiant as she was, the scar on the brow and the shape of her face were actually the more important parts of the equation.

Gamora; one of the Mad Titan’s molls. All the way from across the country, if not further. She carried a world of sin behind her as she strode up to the bar. No trace of perfume followed her; no trail of enticement that promised trouble. Judging by the way she straddled a bar stool, she came armed, too. 

The serene feeling left Peter and in its wake, cold blossomed, cavernous and hungry. He finished his gin in prompt measure, then hesitated. Gamora offered the bartender a smile as Groot granted her a red wine. Long, lithe fingers curled around the glass, and - 

“Do you stare at everyone?” She asked without looking his way. Peter’s eyes rounded, and he shook his head marginally. “Then why are you staring at me?”

“...I forgot how to blink.” 

Gamora turned to face Peter more directly, her hands folding on the bar after setting her wine glass down. Skepticism raised both brows, the scarred one slightly higher than the other. Full lips pressed together; silently exasperated.

“You  _ forgot  _ how to  _ blink. _ ” Peter nodded emphatically. “Then I suggest next you forget that you saw me. Are we clear, corn-fed?”

“‘Corn-fed’?” Peter echoed, bemused - then flipped his hands into the air, defensive as Gamora slipped slightly closer to him. “Yes. No. Yes? Yes. We’re clear. I’m so sorry.” There was something of a not-smile on Gamora’s face for a moment or two before she swung back down to savor her wine.

Remembering to breathe in place of looking at her, Peter scanned the crowd of Guard Dogs instead, ignoring Rocket’s snickers to his right. There hadn’t been any sign of the Devil - or whoever he was - nor any sign of Eddie Brock - not for a few days, at any rate. Peter doubted the Devil would make his way into this low-level Circle of Hell or however it went; anyhow - but Eddie was usually around by this time of night. He still hadn’t gotten around to thanking him for getting him out of trouble just a little ways back.

He hadn’t really thought much about it beyond a verbal thanks, but - maybe he could convince the band to play something Eddie enjoyed, or...buy him a drink. Yeah, that one usually worked. Something warm crept up the back of his neck, and Peter pulled on his lip with an eyetooth, absently worrying his mouth. 

He didn’t mind it here, he realized.

It was - odd, but...nowhere had really ever felt like home to Peter. Not Missouri; certainly, nor Tennessee, nor anywhere else the stars had pulled him. And he was, after all, drawn in by their light. He lingered, looking out across the club’s sea of faces he was growing more familiar with, and found himself swimming in an ocean of alcohol; sure. But opportunity, too. A celestial display of celebration, however dirty and dark, still shining.

In many ways, it was like being a part of the sky he kept staring at night after night. He’d found a little corner up inside of it, a half-forgotten building with a ceiling made of glass. Cold as it was, isolated as it could be, Peter escaped from the Ravagers just late enough to still see most of the constellations. He laid his head back and let the universe wash over him in waves of wishes made realities. Off in the distance, there were dozens of little flickers, each a candle and a prayer. This was his church, more than anything else - hymns in the form of records by the woodstove, accompanied by choirs of rickety floors and wind-bidden doors flapping percussive beats against entrance and exit. 

A million ways out and a million ways up, and here he was in the throngs. A little heaven on earth, maybe. More than a circle of Hell.

His face softened. 

He could get used to it. He could call it home, he thought. 

The fresh gin rose in a silent toast to the thriving room.

And that was when the first gun went off.


	8. Safety: Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ain't no jazz club like a jazz club where things get absolutely out of control. Riff on this, sip on that, and get ready to get the Devil out of dodge.

###  _Pop-_ ** _Ping_**.

The sound was that of a cough, followed by a clink as the bullet shot through someone’s glass and ricocheted off the bar, darting out into the darkness of the club floor.

Peter knew what was happening from an upside-down and unexpected angle; Gamora having abandoned her wine in an effort to wrap her entire body around Peter, effectively shoving him off his stool and against the bar. The shield of her body was accompanied by the weapon in her hand, a Nambu of some kind that Peter could only see when Gamora swung it out wide, aiming at nothing - or something. Her other hand clutched Peter closer to herself, and her eyes scanned the room with a vengeful glare. 

Beside them on his stool, Rocket had lunged upright, standing on the seat, his freshly-loaded Glistenti in hand. His hat had been knocked off; thrown behind the bar, and in comparison to Gamora’s controlled gestures, he waved his arm wildly from side to side.

“ **_WHO DID THAT_ ** ?” He shrieked; infuriated. The jazz had ceased, and every eye in the room was on Rocket. Every hand, similarly, was on an individual weapon. Everything held its breath. “Who’s firin’ rounds? Who wants a piece of me? HUH?”

“You can let go of me now,” Peter remarked feebly from around Gamora’s vicegrip keeping him wedged beneath the bar. “I am perfectly capable of defendin’ myself, ma’am.”

“Don’t ma’am me,” came the semiautomatic response. Peter bit back a  _ yes ma’am _ in return, and Gamora let go, but stuck close to him, still hiding him from view. “If someone’s after me, I’m not about to let some poor bumpkin get in the line of fire.” 

“ _ Bumpkin? _ ” Peter clonked his head on the bar as he tried to rise too fast, suitably offended. “Ow.” Rubbing his rattled skull, Peter grimaced faintly. “You know, they could very well be after--“

“ **Gamora** ,” a low voice gonged out through the silent room. Across the space between them and the door, an imposing figure in a dark blue suit all but glided toward them, long face unamused beneath his fedora. 

“You were saying?” Gamora muttered out of the corner of her mouth. Peter made a slight face, reaching for his weapon.

The sound of no less than a dozen safeties being loosed filled the stale air. Peter’s hands found themselves back in the atmosphere, apologetically motioning to those around him as if to say  _ see? I’m unarmed. It’s all berries. _

“Hello, Ronan,” Gamora said, louder and calmer than ever. She straightened upright, gun still in hand, and flashed Ronan something of an unamused smile. “You followed me all the way here, did you?”

“ _ We _ followed you,” Ronan said, motioning between himself and the men flanking him on either side. His deep voice resonated to the point of making bones shake. Peter swallowed a little, torn between sorely wishing he’d gone somewhere else for the evening and - celebrating the thrill of the danger. There was something to be said in the way adrenaline sent rushes through him like nothing else did.

“You are wanted back home.” 

“I’m wanted everywhere,” Gamora said, and took aim at Ronan with her pistol. “So try again.”

“Maybe we could try somethin’ else,” Peter chipped in, leaning slightly into frame. “A - contest. Best dancer? Best marksman? I know a guy. Just - anything but  _ sad duel for two. _ ”

“Very well,” the man known as Ronan said flatly in reply. His voice rose, effortless and ringing: “ _ Five thousand dollars to the man who brings me the bitch. _ ”

“Oh f-- _ lark _ -” Peter garbled as Groot leaned over the bar to gently pull him back by the collar. Why did people keep intercepting him just when things were getting interesting? He scrabbled upright as Groot carefully moved him just so to avoid someone charging Gamora at a side angle instead. 

Suddenly, with the battle cry of the distinctly inebriated, the fight went from a tense warning shot to an all-out brawl. In the background of the bar, the jazz band looked at one another, shrugged, and began to play.  _ Just some mood music _ , Peter realized deliriously - right before a bottle flew past his head and a light blew out with another crack of a bullet. Rocket was babbling incomprehensibly nearby, his gun aimed at Gamora as she slammed another man down onto a table. 

“I just wanted a drink,” Peter whispered to himself, checking to make sure his gun was loaded now that he had a moment to do so. Well - more or less. He was ready for this. He was ready for anything. He was Star-Lord, he was - 

_ He was back there, for the briefest of moments. _

_ In the damp, cold English rain, up to his knees in the suffocating mud. There was the sound of planes overhead; rattling engines threatening to fall apart. The clouds were thick overhead; tinted yellow from fire. His mouth was moving, but the words just weren’t coming. _

_ Something hot and painful pierced his arm, and the dank weather seemed to cluster to the cut like blackflies to a bull’s eyes. He remembered tilting his head back to catch his breath and being unable to find it. To find leverage on the muck. The trenches beckoned, deep and terrible, and canisters rolled across the fields.  _

_ Everything was monstrously dark.  _

_ Another shot rang out and he turned in place -  _

“Richie?”

And another light blew. There was a shower of glass and a wail of saxophone [ _ “t’ey call t’at t’ing t’e Banshee fer a reason, _ ”] he recalled somebody saying once], and suddenly, Peter remembered where he was, even as his knees turned to jelly. One hand fumbled behind himself for the bar, the other raising his gun high into the air. To - to do something, anything -    
  


He had to get out of this room.

The fear that had gripped him momentarily returned in full force, and it was a sudden, frantic urge to  _ bolt,  _ quick as he could, to the nearest exit. His eyes darted from corner to corner - he himself felt cornered. There wasn’t enough room to maneuver, not enough to get by. His finger twitched and yet another light doused itself on cold steel - the element snuffed in the glass as the lamp burst overhead.

Oh.

_ He’d _ been doing that? Peter looked at the hand holding his gun as if it belonged to somebody else. He could - deal with that later. Right now, he needed to be in the streets and finding his way by skyward glow. Dim as it was through the haze of the city, Peter Quill could always map himself an exit strategy by starlight. 

Swinging forward and ducking down to avoid a flying chair and the bodies that followed, Peter glanced after Gamora - the woman who’d shielded him  _ instantly,  _ no questions asked, maybe kinder than she knew - and Rocket, still perched on the bar stool, his semiautomatic letting shrill rounds tear through the air. They made Peter’s ears ring; brought a strange shakiness to his breath that he refused to acknowledge. His eyes scanned the room - 

And then there was another figure in the midst of the flailing, writhing throng. People threw hands, glasses shattered. This one was oddly still; so horrifyingly still that, for a moment, Peter feared it was a ghost. The name he’d weakly cried out earlier threatened to scramble past his lips again, and Peter felt the world tilt sharply as someone collided with him.

Then the shadow was on the two of them, a descending wraith of retribution and righteous fury. The man who’d just knocked into Peter in an effort to crawl to Gamora made a sound of surprise as his head cracked into the side of the bar. Sliding to his rear for a second or two, Peter kicked back to scoot out of range of the man who’d just - rescued him? He wasn’t sure.

“Stay there,” the Devil ordered, and swung a fist up to block someone’s blow. A twist of his body and a turn of his hand like a key in a lock, and the other figure went down _hard_ on his knees, _howling._ _Murphy McBride_ , Peter noted to himself, leafy eyes round with shock. A regular here, gone rabid at the idea of a bounty. In a matter of moments, what had been a haven for most now that the gangs had been driven out of this pocket of the city had dissolved once more into a den of chaos and bloodshed. 

“Stay.  _ T’ere _ ,” the Devil’s voice flowed into Peter’s ears with a soft growl of frustration. Peter caught the lilt of the accent this time; maybe properly for the first time, and opened his mouth to ask something -  _ demons can be Irish? _ \- before the being was swallowed up smoothly in the crowd. Just a slight pivot to his foot and he disappeared behind a bigger man - who went down with a kick to the back of his knee. One gun tried to go off, but the Devil intercepted the bullet - then whallopped the shooter in the face with his own knuckles and weapon. Over. And over. And over, until the man stopped moving entirely.

Peter’s grip on his own gun tightened.  _ Stay there stay there stay there… _

Normally he would’ve been fine with this. He’d been in fights before. He was good at fighting. He was better at finding clever solutions to  _ avoid  _ fighting, too - but - 

Something’d gone off in his head long before the gun, and it was just one of those nights that was black and pitiful, devoid of stars that he could see. Once again, Peter’s gaze flicked to the door, desperate and yearning.   
  
Someone touched his hand, and he shot back to the present - the muzzle of his gun up under the chin of - 

“Eddie!” Peter drew the weapon back in surprise, the safety snapping back into place. “D’ast - I almost blew your head off just now.” His laugh went a bit wild before he managed to bite it back. The reporter looked harried, and Peter remembered where they were.  _ Right _ . 

“Let’s get out of here, Pete,” Eddie muttered, and, for the second time since they’d met, Eddie grabbed Peter by the arm to haul him out of harm’s way - spiriting him quickly toward the exit nearest, a rickety set of steps out of what was, more or less, a storm cellar. Peter felt the world move in a watercolor blur; the running liquor sliding under his feet and the screaming cacophony of instruments being used for fodder of war trailing after him. 

Eddie and Peter surfaced into the jet-black night with a gasp like men half-drowned, half-dying. The door Eddie wrestled into submission behind the two of them, a metallic  _ clang  _ shooting out across the small side-street, alerting some distant dog to start barking and howling. Peter felt much the same - wanting nothing more than to whoop or holler following the escape they’d just maneuvered.

Eddie’d covered him like they’d been on the battlefield, his brain supplied helpfully. It filled in the blanks, caught him up to the moment, as Eddie’s broad frame had planted itself firmly between Peter and a million unexpected enemies. Another person guarding him without any pause or concern for themselves. Was it him? No - couldn’t be - 

Had to be the fact that the bar’d been called Guard Dogs.

Brought out the protective nature in people.

“...You saved me,” Peter breathed - then, realizing, he turned back to look at the storm doors, heart rising in his throat. One hand fumbled to grip onto Eddie, and Peter thrust a finger at the cellar exit in question. “And - so did he!” 

“Who?” Bafflement pervaded Eddie’s response, and Peter tugged more insistently on Eddie’s coat, half-throttling him in the process.

“The Devil - I think that’s the Devil they talk about, the Devil of - ”

“Hell’s Kitchen.” The hair stood up on the back of Eddie’s neck as he and Peter swung around to face the previously-empty side street. There, red-handed and unamused, was the so-called Devil himself, dressed in black and breathing rashly. His covered face; blindfolded or shrouded, Peter couldn’t really say, was cut in places, nicked by shards of glass. Peter wondered for a wild moment whether or not any of those were his fault. Or if they all were - 

No, Ronan had been there for Gamora, which meant - 

These were just casualties of somebody else’s war.

The gin tasted sour in his mouth, and Peter sucked in a breath through his nose. Eddie had positioned himself between Peter and the masked man, one hand extended in warning. Weaponless, but no less threatening, somehow.

“Look - friend, I don’t know what your deal is, but -”

“Save it,” the Devil said flatly, taking a step or two closer to Peter and Eddie. The latter tensed and rose to fully obscure the former [who was currently trying to fold like an accordion at the knees, but that was besides the point]. “If yer tip to t’e Accusers hadn’t gone t’rough, we wouldn’t be in this sort of situation to begin with.”  _ The Accusers? _ That must’ve been Ronan and his crew. The name rang a bell, Peter realized - people Yondu had run into before. Nasty pieces of work. Usually didn’t venture far from Chicago, though.

His head was buzzing as information kept trying to relay itself through his brain, firing off and on like a motorcar engine. His heartbeat, frenetic in his ears, didn’t help matters much. Reminded him he was alive, at least, which was probably a good thing.

“Wait.” There, he’d caught up after all. “You - led the Accusers to the gin joint tonight?” Eddie’s mouth hardened somewhat, but he didn’t dignify Peter nor the Devil with a response. 

Apparently, one wasn’t really needed.

“Ye come into my town,” the Devil breathed, through teeth stained as claret as his hands. _ Unholy wine, _ Peter noted deliriously. Another step forward and the Devil was within arm’s reach. “Ye come ‘ere, disruptin’ my work wit’ yer  _ stories  _ -”

“Stories?” Eddie muttered, hands balled into fists at his sides. Something seemed to start to whir into place for him; a little clockwork gear hear or there threatening to turn. The Devil stayed where he was, but every inch of him seemed to move from side to side - a mongoose sizing up a snake, preparing to strike. Peter slunk back a step or two himself, peeling out from Eddie’s shade. The street lamps nearest them flickered in a strong wind hence - 

“Puttin’ innocent lives at risk so ye can play God,” the Devil said, scorn seeping out of every word. Eddie’s eyes narrowed under his hat. “I won’t stand fer it, Mr. Brock.”

Peter swore he saw a flash of recognition outright cross Eddie’s face, and the man opened his mouth to say something, but - 

Those damned rust-dark knuckles popped him clean between the eyes, and Eddie Brock dropped like a stone to the pavement below. Peter; revealed by the descent like a man behind the curtain, looked between the Devil and the downed reporter. A frantic gesture motioned between the two with his [safely-locked] gun.

“Wha’d you do that for?!” The Devil huffed an aggravated breath, shaking out his hand, before muttering tersely:

“He’s bad news, Peter. Ye’d do well t’know t’at up front. Best t’avoid ‘im, lest’e turn on ye next like t’e dog he is.” Peter looked down at Eddie’s body on the street, still trying to regain his footing after - after everything.

“I don’t think he’s a dog,” Peter said softly. “I don’t know what I did to deserve anyone’s protection, but -” when he looked back up, like the last time, the Devil’d gone back to whatever Hell he’d come from. Kitchen or otherwise; he must’ve had a furnace to keep burning.

Swearing faintly, Peter tucked his gun away, then stooped to slip his arms under Eddie’s own, and, quick as he could, began to drag his friend[?] off the street.

It wouldn’t do to leave him there. No sol--nobody left behind, and all that... 

And this would repay the debt he felt he still owed to the guy.

Debts he owed the Devil, however, well - 

That’d have to be a pound of flesh for another day.


	9. A Real Knockout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Eddie catch up after the near-fatal experience they just had.

###  When Eddie came to, he saw stars.

A...lot of them, actually. He had to lift both hands to rub his eyes, and found they weren’t going away. Overhead, through spiderwebbing panes of glass, he could see more of the heavens than he had in a long time. The cathedral ceiling of limitless possibilities was like a great kaleidoscope, reeling by overhead. Remembering to breathe, Eddie exhaled through his nose - then winced, one hand lifting to cup his face.

Right. He’d been decked.

Punched by that miserable, no-account, lying little - 

“You’re awake!” The bright voice made him shoot upright in place, floundering for a gun that wasn’t there. His jacket had been removed; shirt was off - the only thing he was left in was his undershirt, faded as it was. Peter was sitting nearby, lifting a needle from a record on the floor by a lit wood stove. 

“Your stuff’s just there,” he added, nodding to the chair by the door - all of which slowly came into view in the warm glow of the stove and a couple of candles. Little to detract from the all-encompassing night. “I didn’t want you to overheat, so…” Peter’s smile turned sheepish at the corners. “Sorry. But - you should be okay here for a bit.”

“Wherezhere,” Eddie tried - then lifted the heel of his hand to crack his jaw. Bone slotted into place and he grimaced, snapping the mandibles. He felt like an animal doing it, but then again, it’d been an animal that’d laid him out flat. Oh, when he got his  _ hands  _ on that little  _ bastard  _ -

“Home,” Peter’s voice cut through the haze of building rage; the gentle rasp of his voice a quieting sound. Eddie picked his head up from where he’d been resting it against his palm and gave the area a good once-over yet again.

It was, in a word - barren.

Not exactly hospitable, with the sagging furniture beneath him, a chest nearby, a spool table, and two - well...one and a half chairs, given that one was leaning woefully to the right just a bit too far. Eddie’s eyes flickered across the floor, scoping the rest out - it was a scuffed, unpolished thing of a thousand splinters and rough-hewn edges. So was he. This was the kind of vacant place squatters might find suitable if nothing else served, but - 

Peter, illuminated by the wood stove, looked content. His hands were worrying themselves a little, in the slow, absent way someone who fidgeted often might try to keep their hands busy. His eyes were soft in the glow of the little iron-cast furnace, the belly of which bloomed orange and gold in waves over the floor. Gone were the layers of clothes from Peter’s lanky frame - wiry muscle bronzed by the kiss of flame ebbed and flowed with each give and take of the hands he rolled together. It was - hypnotic, in its own way. Like watching a candle dance.

Eddie snapped his gaze up to Peter’s face and grimaced apologetically. To his credit, Peter only smiled - then lifted a brow expectantly.

“...What?” Eddie asked warily. Peter snickered.

“I asked if your head’s on straight after that hit y’took, Eddie.” Annoyance wiped the budding nervousness away with a swift movement across his features, and his brows flattened to a line of disinterested irritation. 

“He didn’t hit me that hard.” 

“He knocked you out cold,” Peter pointed out blithely. Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “Laid you out  _ flat. _ ” 

“Whose side are you on, anyhow?” Eddie groused, and, slowly starting to get to his feet, reached for his coat. “You got a light, by the way? I need a smoke. I can do that here, right?”

“Only if you share,” Peter countered, and, patting his person, reached down into one of his oversized boots to produce a lighter. That he flicked Eddie’s way with an easy snap of the wrist, and Eddie caught it in accordance, turning it over in his hand. A little fire had been etched into it - or - he tilted it toward the low glow of the stove, a step or two now from Peter himself - maybe it was a shield. Hard to see in this level of darkness.

“I will,” Eddie muttered, “least I could do for you draggin’ me off the streets.” He found his little cigarette case - and within it, one cigarette. Well - he’d promised. He offered it to Peter, who hesitated - then took it between his fingers, holding it up for Eddie to light. Green-hazel eyes, practically gilded in the sunset hues of the heart source nearby peered up at him expectantly. It took a couple of flicks, but soon, Peter was breathing in the gasper’s smoggy air, the sweet-bitter smoke uncurling from the corner of his mouth. 

“Consider it a one for your two,” Peter said, and, getting to his feet, stepped away briefly to toss open a window. The chill of the night chased wind into the hideaway, and a swirl of scattered leaves propelled by nighttime spirits swept away from the sill. Peter leaned against it with the cigarette, the lone star at the end of the roll a wink and nudge for Eddie to come hither. He followed Peter to the window after another prolonged pause, one hand rising to rub the sore ache out of his neck to no avail.

“One for - whaddya mean?” Peter shrugged a little, taking another drag on the cigarette. 

“You saved me twice,” he pointed out mildly, “the raid  _ and  _ the bullet waltz earlier.” 

“Oh - ” Eddie paused, considering. “...Guess I did. But you would’ve gotten out fine.” 

“You and that other fella don’t seem to think so.” Peter punctuated his statement by gesturing with the cigarette out into the night - then, flipping it neatly between his fingers, offered it to Eddie. “Here. Sharing.” 

About to protest, Eddie faltered - something in Peter’s expression, earnest though it was, commanded absolutely no argument. Sighing a little, Eddie reached out to accept the offering, putting it up to his lips. A deep breath in and the toxic fumes sank deep into his lungs, blanketing breath in a foggy swirl of indifference. His nerves calmed almost instantly; the jumpy, jittery anger subdued down to a simmering displeasure. 

“The other fella - that the one that cleaned my clock?” Peter smirked, then quickly tried to hide it under a hand as Eddie looked his way; coughing a little.

“One and the same. Dunno what I did to get his attention, but - I keep seeing him around. Sometimes I think it’s worse if I  _ don’t, _ ” Peter shivered, one hand snaking up through his golden hair, effectively spiking it at all angles. Eddie took another trawl of the cigarette before offering it out to Peter again without a word. He accepted and, for a moment, their hands cradled the fire. A spark or two shifted on the breeze before Peter pulled back, his eyes lingering on Eddie’s face. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Eddie asked, folding his coat up in his arms before setting it aside on another of the many glass windows’ landings. Where they stood felt a lot like a fishbowl as viewed by some great unseen god, too many open places, too much exposure. But it was quiet and warm even with the bite of the night air, and they were surrounded by stars both neon and cosmic alike. It felt a bit like a dream, though Eddie hadn’t had one this good in a while.

The thought sent a little rush through him, and drew a faint smile on his face.

It was short-lived.

“What he said about you. The Devil. About you leading those men there, to Guard Dogs’.” Gulped down by the sea of unease, his smile drowned under the faint wisps of smog passing between them as Peter spoke. “...it’s - baloney, right?” Peter searched Eddie’s face. “Right, Eddie?”

“What’s it to you,” Eddie snapped, then settled himself. The expression of shock on Peter’s face stung, though the one that followed hurt worse. His brightness withered, the boyish hope chased off by woe. “...I wasn’t in a position to lie,” Eddie said tiredly, unable to hold Peter’s gaze under the weight of his dismay. “Had to tell’em somethin’. I owe a lotta people a lotta information. That’s the nature of the game I’m in.”

“...maybe you could find a different game,” Peter suggested meekly. Eddie snorted, and, without looking Peter’s way, accepted the cigarette back when offered. It was burnt halfway down now - traveling fast between them. 

“Like the moonshine business?” Peter pouted at that. Eddie caught the change out of the corner of his eye and grinned to himself, his mouth a stove of its own sizzling amusement around puffs of the coffin nail caught between his teeth. 

“It’s not that bad a gig,” Peter muttered, toeing the wall with a little kick of his jet-black boot. Eddie chuckled, the up and down of the night and the current conversation keeping him from catching his breath. The cigarette was returned to Peter, and this time, Eddie rested his hand on the sill between them, thin peeling wood at a practical distance.

“...we run in similar circles,” Eddie said finally, studying the city outside as if searching for a specific light to route his thoughts by, “and the last thing I’d ever wanna do is put you in any kinda danger, Peter. I’ll be more mindful in the future.”

“The next time you sell someone out, you mean?” Peter’s tone, however friendly, took on a slight edge to it, and Eddie finally looked back up at him. The glow of the cigarette had faded, the glowing coal eye closing to rest in ashes. Cinders drifted on the gusts still singing around the frame, and between the two of them, silence fell. Weary wheezes from the wood stove and the city’s distant clamor dying down hours before daybreak filled in for any words they could’ve had for a long while. 

“If you’re askin’ me to change my ways,” Eddie started finally - but Peter shook his head, effectively stifling the attempt. 

“No, that ain’t my place.” Eddie frowned, and Peter reached toward him. Maybe he was a reuben like they claimed he was; some tricky bastard from Missouri’s backwaters - who didn’t account for the fact that he should’ve kept his distance. That there were more dances to be had than those on the floors of jazz clubs. Communication was Eddie’s jitterbug, jumping from move to move in order to keep things lively. But Peter made him trip over his feet; forget his words - like now, when Peter’s hand clasped his shoulder, squeezing just a little, warm as the fire in his makeshift hearth.

“But I know you’re better than y’let yourself be.” It’s said so easily Eddie almost laughed, disbelief sending his brows rocketing toward the roof. A scoff nearly made its way out, but he killed it on liftoff. The result was a sputtering breath, followed by a furrow of his brow. 

“Gee - Pete, I dunno, but I just know…” What  _ did  _ he know? Eddie realized, belatedly, he wasn’t actually sure. He knew he was in Peter’s house, that they’d had a hell of a night, and they’d shared a hand-rolled cigarette that tasted sweeter every time it returned to him from Peter. The flavor still tingled on his lips, tapdancing absently over his tongue. Eddie swallowed; throat suddenly dry, and Peter offered him an encouraging smile. 

“...I know you make me wanna try, damn you,” Eddie muttered, and Peter smirked triumphantly, his hand lifting to pat Eddie’s cheek after releasing his shoulder. Anyone else would’ve felt the wrath of his right hook, but - Eddie let Peter be, the heat streaking his skin shamefully bright. He meant well. That was the most infuriating thing - 

In all his story-gathering, all his studying, all his work in getting to know the city from the inside-out, the worst of the worst, there was Peter - shining and darb and darling, waltzing his way through all elements seedy or otherwise. Coming out unscathed, one scrape at a time. He evaded disaster by the skin of his teeth, and, apparently, by collecting allies accidentally along the way.

Like the woman - Gamora. Like him.

Like the Devil himself.

Which seemingly brought both Peter and himself to the same thought at the same time.

As the sky before them began to streak with violet and orange, sunrise creeping between the construction below, Peter spoke to the air, scratchy voice soft and sleepy:

“So - what’re you gonna do now, Eddie?” Peter stifled a yawn against his hand, arms sprawled against the sill of the window. He heard Peter hum, seemingly dozing off where he stood. Comical, really. Eddie bit back a snort as the wood beneath Peter’s weight creaked; the Ravager sagging in place with drowsiness.

After a lingering look over the skyline, Eddie glanced away from the city long enough to instead train his gaze on [arguably] its brightest light, lips pressing together - keeping secrets and the taste of the cigarette between them. 

“...Well, Peter,” he said idly, lips curling at the corners, “I’ve heard what y’have t’say.” One eye cracked open a little to observe him, Peter pillbugged up against the windowpanes. “I’m either goin’ to church or to court. One way or another…” His thumbs hooked in his belt, and Eddie fixed his gaze on the sparkle of the steeple nearest, beginning to twinkle in the rising sun. 

“I’ve got laws to look into.” On the level or otherwise. 

He was bound to say more, but found himself instead cut off by the  _ thump  _ of Peter apparently losing the battle to stay upright. Pausing mid-motion to belatedly stop him, Eddie sighed a little - then, stooping despite bleary protests, promptly scooped Peter off the floor - effortless and quick. 

“C’mon,” Eddie muttered, mock-exasperation drowning out Peter’s  _ “oh” _ of surprise, “lemme look after ya one more time. You’re dead on your feet.”

“I’m actually alive in your arms,” Peter pointed out, a catlike grin on his face, lids half-lowered. He didn’t seem to notice the effect his words had on Eddie - or, if he did, realization was rubbed out by the Sandman who’d declared Peter the one down for the count this time. 

_ Just as well _ , Eddie figured. The night’d been strange enough. He laid Peter on the tilted sofa, looking around the wasteland of possibilities that was his home; more or less - somewhere to lay his head, at the very least. Eddie hesitated as he withdrew from Peter, and, against his better judgment, gently brushed a few locks of his stuck-up hair down, tousling tresses.

He missed the part where Peter’s hand reached for him as he walked away from the rising sun and the dying stove, his mind already on the day ahead. 

Eddie had a lot to think about. A lot to plan. A lot to work through. 

Starting with why the night had truly been strange and full of terrors. And where to find the master of those terrors - 

Because even the Devil could only hide so long from the light of day.


	10. A Good Man is Hard to Find (In a World of Sinners)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt struggles to come to terms with just how fast things have slipped out of his control.  
> Be sure to check out the beautiful art of the scene at the end of this chapter here!: https://murdockquills.tumblr.com/post/625054575466086400/youre-a-good-one-peter-quill-very

###  Matt Murdock used to dream of a normal life. What it'd be like to come home, kiss his wife, ruffle his kids' hair, listen to the radio crackling in the corner. A house with a leaky roof and a splintery floor would've sufficed. He would've made do, would've gotten by just fine. 

But people, Matt realized, spitting blood into the gutter running with the overflow of rain; or, more accurately, _ people like him _ didn't get that kind of opportunity. They got the wet road. They got the boot to the ribs. They got the pipe to the side of the face.

And when they got up from all that, they fought like crazy for something they'd never have, just so somebody else  _ could. _

That was what Matthew Murdock did.

And when that was over, and he staggered home, half-dead, to crawl into bed, Matt continued the dream.

It was just a little bit different, lately. Sparked on by something he’d read recently that he couldn’t shake out of his head. He could feel it prickling his fingerprints, the phantom braille that served as concepts given caresses, sculpted imagery from malleable paper.

**_And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling._ **

**_(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)_ **

  
  


Because of that; the radio still came on, but instead of news or a story hour, instead, it was the latest jazz. It was gospel. It was the distant classical orchestra offset by the rain outside. And he held a man he couldn’t see - but knew glowed like honey given soul. When they kissed; him and Peter, it wasn’t the hurried thing given between tasks, but the sweet, soft surrender to delaying the day a little bit longer. To continue their gentler nights.

They sank into one another and Matt lapped up the sweetness from Peter’s scratchy laughter, their legs intertwining and the sheets shifting against them in a way that kept everything safe and sacred.

A haven he knew he didn’t deserve, for that was a head full of  _ sinning. _

On the nights when things were worse, when he hurt, when he ached and couldn’t rinse the taste of blood out of his mouth fast enough, sometimes, the dreams were different.

They were harsher, coarser, wilder dreams. Running, panting breaths, catching himself on the pavement and crawling for purchase into the arms of an alleyway that never spat him out. The doomed halls of consequence lined by refuse and remains from days already dead by nightfall lurched around him. A cage was the grid of New York City, stinking with fear and cortisol. 

And that’s where Eddie would catch him, clasp him by the throat and haul him over to a wall. Their mouths would meet with none of the tenderness. The mutual understanding was that of two predators preying on one another. That’s why their teeth were so sharp; why their hands clawed their respective ways across one another’s bodies. They ripped each other asunder, and Matt found his mouth full of moans like unholy hymns, chasing ecstasy over the limit. Eddie was opium and gigglewater and God only knew what other mistake one could make in the Kitchen at night - 

Those were the dreams Matt woke sticky and sick from, sweat staining the sheets like wings of the fallen beneath him.

He couldn’t have both. He couldn’t have either.

He could barely carry the weight of the ache to confession. Bruises from his fights, breathless unease on his lips, Matthew  _ tried.  _ He left words out, he kept quiet and pious under the reprimand and suggestions of the Father. He bowed his head before the cross and prayed for some of the serpent’s venom to leave him.

But it stayed, somewhere between anger and resignation. It boiled and blistered his insides, till all peeled black and terrible. But outwardly, he remained upright. Respectable. Confident and sure. Nothing could rattle him.

Nothing, save the interruption that came one unexpected August day in the court at the hands of one of the men he dreamed about.

And by “at his hands”, Matt meant the knuckles that clipped his face with enough force to almost knock him off his feet. He tasted metal and realized there’d been a ring on Eddie’s finger - just enough to add a little extra sting. For a myriad of reasons.

He could’ve prevented it, of course - intercepted the blow, but. Too many watchful eyes, too many roaming souls. Bold of Eddie Brock to try this kind of stunt out in public, anyhow. The court’s back hallway rang with the sound of his rage, voice raised to echo thunderously in the alcove he’d just knocked Matt back into:

“You really think you can just do whatever the fuck you want, don’t you?”

Matt ran a finger over his lip to catch the falling drops, crimson and copper cloying flesh. Eddie swung for him again; the stink of liquor on his limbs a phantom haunting the motion. He was caught mid-gesture, however, and wrenched back with a kick of his legs. Hefted clean off the floor, though Matt could tell it took four men to do it. 

_ Not bad. _

The intrusion came from the Devil himself; and Matt shut the sound away, locking it between closed lips and evenly-drawn breath.

“T’at’s no way to get somebody’s attention, Mr. Brock,” Matt said lightly, one hand lifting to motion the policemen and associates of the court to stop their actions against Eddie. The tableaux in the hallway stood frozen; a mural of malcontent. Matt could hear the way Eddie’s breathing got ragged around the edges; the reek of moonshine sweating out slowly over time. Little by little, the hand he’d raised lowered back toward the ground. “Why don’t ye try usin’ yer words?”

“You -  _ fucker, _ ” Eddie kicked out with a leg and found himself drawn back still further, snarling faintly. Matt’s brows lifted.

“Try  _ anot’er  _ word.”

He could hear the sharp intake of breath, and felt Foggy’s hand descend on his arm. The smile sloughed off his face as he remembered where he was. Who and what he was dealing with. Whatever this was in regards to - 

“Neither of us need you,” Eddie spat faintly. Matt froze as he accepted the handkerchief from Foggy, the cloth hovering mere inches from the crimson dripping from his lip. 

“Excuse me?” Foggy said sharply, turning from his injured partner to face the man in the hallway. Matt felt the ripples in the air; all of them closing in like a sound coming down a train tunnel. It was a little difficult to breathe. “You just assaulted this man in  _ broad daylight,  _ Mr. Brock - I’d expect you to know better than this.” 

“And I’d expect your partner -” Eddie pulled an arm free to thrust his finger in Foggy’s face, still growling. Matt could barely hear him, however, past the all-encompassing beating of the heart in his ears. “To know  _ better  _ than to get wrapped up in things that he  _ shouldn’t. _ ”

“Get him out of here,” Foggy ordered, and Eddie’s feet skidded off the tiled floor as he was once again drawn backwards. 

“You better make sure,” Eddie snapped from a distance as Foggy asked Matt  _ are you okay, _ his hand on Matt’s face to try and get him to come back to the moment, “that the next time - you get all your facts straight -  _ Devil’s advocate! _ ”

Matt heard nothing else save the creak of the broad oak doors and the burst of sounds that came from a man being forcibly extracted and thrown out into the daylight. Breath came back to him slowly, and, pushing Foggy away [a kindness given in a gentle form], Matt walked out of the court by another means, cane sweeping concern away from passersby.

\--

The church was dim and empty this time of day. A work day, wherein only the elderly and a few women had come and gone. He could smell their perfume. There was illness on the air; Margaret Maury was dying. She lived on the corner just two buildings and three floors away from Matt. He knew her from the way she’d sing when she hung her laundry out to dry. Old country folk songs about lost loves and distant caves coolly echoing the agonies of an entire culture.

Matt stopped not to speak to the ghosts of scent and sound, instead dipping into the confessional booth to curl up like a child on the stoop. The priest on the other side waited in reverent, patient silence, for Matt to speak.

Some days he could. Some days he couldn’t. Today could go either way, for his lip was stinging and the salt was back in his eyes.

“Bless me fat’er,” Matt whispered at long last, “fer I’ve…”  _ Sinned  _ was on the tip of his tongue; forked and dangerous. He fought against it, wrestled with that demon. His throat clicked shut and the key turned, and suddenly, all Matt wanted to do was slam his fist into the side of the cherry wood and wicker, beat his way free. The imp that bore his name and wore his story rallied and railed against his ribs, trying to box its way free. He thumped his head back against the side of the booth and weakly exhaled.

“...Take your time, my son,” the priest said softly. “By God’s grace, find words, and be healed.”

Matt’s smile turned sour with wrath as he curled bruised fingers together. The bludgeoning tools of the damned forging molten weapons out of broken jaws and oozing pores. He could taste the priest’s unease. 

_ Good. _

At least this man knew to fear the Devil.

\--

  
  


And so, by nightfall, there that same Devil stood after peeling himself out of the bloodstained gutter below the neon stars. Matthew stayed; rooted in place before Peter Quill, a spector shrouded in black. But Peter felt no fear - just quiet curiosity. Matt could taste that, too - the lack of fear. Intoxicating; adrenaline only, sweet and salty all at once, it called to him. He was drawn in, washed ashore by the wanting of it all.

Little by little, the Devil inched forward. Just a man under there, Peter mused to himself - a man with hands so red and shaky they seemed about to sprout claws or catch fire. But all they did was catch his arm, just-barely. They entangled in his jacket to pull him back from the brink, and, against his better judgment [or at least Yondu’s voice in his ear], Peter lowered his weapon. 

Slowly, the Devil raised Peter’s hand to his face, and Peter watched, riveted, to see what happened next. 

He more felt than saw it, standing so close in the shadows. Soft lips pressed themselves against his fingers, the fleshy heel of his hand, the pads of each digit, the wrist with its nest of veins. His pulse skipped and skittered; stammering in confusion, as a hoarse voice followed from the dark:

“Ye’re a  _ good  _ one, Peter Quill.” Peter wanted to ask  _ why,  _ again, why him, but -

The Devil is withdrawing, letting the soot of the evening swallow his form. 

“I’ll trouble ye no more.”

“Wait -” Peter reached for him, but he was already gone. His hand lingered in the air, full of the current that the kisses had left behind. He curled his fingers into a fist and let it drop, leadened, by his side again.

“...trouble me like that again anytime,” he said faintly, and lolled his head back up to let the rain dote on him instead in place of a little flame.

Above them both in the darkness, Eddie Brock drank his grim resolve with something cold in his chest he couldn’t rekindle with gin.

Out here, a normal life died under the wheels of motorcars, at gunpoint, by alcohol handle, to the sounds of jazz or choir hymns. 

A normal life didn’t exist for a demon, a bastard, and a little boy lost. 

That was the story here, at least as far as Eddie could tell - 

And he had stained its pages with his hate. 


	11. Den of Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Peter interlude.

###  “--And then he just--” Peter’s hand lifted, exasperated, in a shrug. “ _Left._ ”

The fingers gently stroking the sides of his face continued their journey, and Mantis bowed her head forward a little to try and inspect Peter’s expression a little bit more. Her little headpiece, its loose feathers floating through the smoky atmosphere of the den they occupied, threatened to slip completely over her brow. Dark eyes drifted; dreaming, across Peter’s scruffy features. Lithe digits splayed in careful massage on either temple, and Mantis hummed a soft note of concern.

“This is weighing on you very heavily,” she noted unnecessarily - except nothing was ever unnecessary where Mantis was concerned, Peter’d found.

He’d stumbled across this place by accident on one of his reckless rambles about town, caught somewhere between the liquor lot he’d initially been scouting out for down by the river and the garage nearby he liked to frequent called Milano’s. Sometimes they let him take a look at the automobiles they were fixing up, and Peter slipped them a few cases of moonshine under the radar. It was a nice give and take where he could sit and survey the scene, listen to a little Gaelic, and teach himself some curse-words he could get away with more openly. Not that the Ravagers were big on manners, of course - but that was beside the point.

The wandering had then taken him into what he’d initially thought to be an opium den, of sorts. And in some ways, sure - it was. There was a corner for everything in the surprisingly big space, enough for a small eating area with a bar, a little jazz section where strings commonly played, an eclectic hallway of pawnable goods, and, in the very back, behind a curtain of crystals and velvet, he’d found  _ her. _

Mantis.

Mantis, who was known quite well from here all the way out to Long Island for her...gifts. She was some sort of spiritualist, as far as Peter could understand her - not the type to conjure bloody spirits to dance on the ceiling or snuff out candles, no - something else entirely. When she held his hand and told him he’d done well to come to her, and reflected back to him all the things he kept secret in his heart, he’d been...shocked. He’d broken down, admittedly, when she mentioned... _ his  _ name, when she’d described in great detail his blue-eyed hero he’d lost in the war.

And then she’d surprised Peter again: by crying with him. Rigorously and loudly until the two of them could be heard sobbing all the way out into the foyer.

And neither of them had been ashamed of that, really. Maybe Peter had at first, but Mantis had never once thought less of him, from what he could discern. She’d greeted him every time he’d come in since with the same level of quiet enthusiasm and excitement. 

“You were always meant to come find me,” she told him on his third visit, before he’d even opened his mouth to speak to her. He’d gotten her a little flower from the open-air market he thought she might enjoy; the pale magnolia kept in a little blue vase. She’d accepted it graciously, and held it to her face for a long while. And then she’d smiled like there was no one else in the universe but Peter Quill.

“And we were meant to know one another.”

He’d seen her work with others, too - the misfortune of having no door oftentimes meant Peter slipped into the Collector’s [what he came to discover the place was called] unannounced and suspiciously under the radar. He’d come to find Mantis with a stranger’s head in her lap [like his was now], fingers chasing shadows away under the strange, yet powerful warmth of her fingers. 

They always left better for it, which was why Peter found himself here now.

“I just don’t understand,” Peter murmured, turning to tuck his face a little closer to her arm. The sweet scent of apricots and fresh cream greeted him. Something in the scent ached of childhood in Missouri; a lazy Summer afternoon with his mother hanging the laundry to dry on the line. Sheets flapping in the wind, her hand shading her eyes as she watched him frolic out by the dirt road. He’d been catching little frogs to take back to the creek - his fault they’d gotten loose to begin with. She had a bowl of fresh apricots waiting for him on the porch, and then - 

His stomach turned.

“She fell so hard,” Mantis said quietly, and Peter only jolted a  _ little  _ when he heard her speak his own thoughts back to him. Something else he was still getting acquainted with. Mantis could stroke the nightmares, the dreams, and the fears clear out of a man’s head, but - 

In the process at times, she gave them life in the space they occupied.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Mantis swept his forelock aside as she drew light across his brow; unseen, but deeply-felt. She was always a little bit warm, always nectarine-sweet. “It was not your fault, P--” 

His hand caught hers and held it. Leafy hazels peered up at her from the incense-laden gloom. Somewhere, bells chimed and people spoke. There was a lazy cacophony all around them that couldn’t quite manifest behind the elegant drapes the way the rest of this could.

There were a thousand ways a man could find himself haunted.

Peter, looking up into eyes as dark and endless as a night without stars, knew this. He knew, also, that she didn’t mean to frighten him - she only ever meant to help. It was why he remembered to loosen the grip he kept on her hand, placing it back on his cheek for comfort after a moment or so. Mantis, who’d gone still as the boards behind her, relaxed into the touch as well, returning to her work. 

“Just -” Peter’s voice cracked faintly. Mantis freed a hand to reach for a little bottle instead, nodding, barely moving to keep from jostling Peter on her legs. “Just don’t wanna talk about that. Came to talk t’ya about - about him. The Devil.”

“He is fond of you,” Mantis said dreamily. Peter sighed in frustration as she uncorked the bottle.

“Yes - but  _ why _ -”

“You remind him that there is good in this world.” Mantis’s fingers curved beneath his chin, and, little by little, her thumb coaxed his lip open with a careful tug. Peter’s lips parted, and she poured the mixture between them. The cascade was a cool waterfall of champagne, gin, and orange zest. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as he took it in, medicinal and soothing. She always knew when to stop pouring, and she set the bottle aside after taking a small sip for herself. Peter swallowed and let the balm rush through him. The blossoming scent of citrus joined the rest in the air, and Peter’s mind floated for a second, suspended on tender touch and the release of bright sensation.

“Dunno that there’s...that much good about me to be a reminder,” he confessed - with none of the cheek or bravado he might’ve downplayed such a thing with...with anyone else. Yondu would’ve rolled his eyes, Kraglin would’ve  _ scoffed,  _ but…

“You exude a great light,” Mantis told him, fingers tapping temples as she held him in place. They looked at one another again, Peter having momentarily lost himself in her web of starry scarves; a cocoon of silken fineries that at times felt more like a cage than anything else. “Something inside of you which pulls others in. A healing light. Energy…” Her face brightened. “Purple!”

“ _ Purple? _ ” Peter sputtered back, grinning in spite of himself. Mantis was smiling, too, though her nod was much more exuberant, earnest, and sincere.

“Yes,” she said patiently, “purple, like the place between day and night.” That gave Peter some pause, mostly because she seemed to be on a roll. And once she got started, it was hard not to be completely hooked.

“His world is one that is always on fire,” Mantis said gently, her nails scritching under his sandy hair. Peter fought to keep his eyes open from the flurry of sensation, instead succumbing to a brief amount of darkness after a time. “He looks for the sky and finds you. He doesn’t look the way you or I might. He leads...with spirit.” She sounded hesitant enough that Peter cracked an eye open. 

Mantis studied the wall nearby, squinting a little. One hand lifted to nudge her headpiece back into place, and the bob of peacock feathers waved like an insect’s antennae. She sighed deeply.

“It is difficult to explain. He is surrounded by smoke and the feeling of  _ pain _ .” Mantis drew in a breath. “Everything in his life is...sharp, and fatal.” Her hand fell back down to join the other in Peter’s hair, and her eyes followed to find his face. Her expression was soft.

“Everything, that is, except for you.”

“...sounds like responsibility,” Peter said after a moment, trying to find his foothold in a joke. “I don’t like it.” Mantis hummed noncommittally, and patted either side of his face. As always, his heart had unwound enough, his body jellied enough, that he felt reluctant to pull himself away from her. So he lingered, even as she began to prepare for the next person, clearing her table and setting the little bottle aside - all without dislodging him in the process.

“He thinks it is  _ his  _ responsibility to preserve such softness, such goodness,” Mantis told him patiently, shoving the cork back into the bottle with a deft twist of her wrist. Little pearls on her sleeve caught the light. Too often he’d thought of taking just  _ one,  _ but - Peter couldn’t bring himself to take more from her than he already had. Even if she was covered in jewels, even if she gave everything to him far too freely…

They were friends, or so he hoped.

She must’ve known, as she always did, when he thought that - because she flashed him a furtive little smile from under her upraised arm as she tucked the bottle back behind a figurine of a god he didn’t recognize.

“All you ever had to do to earn love is be yourself.”

“Love?” Peter shot upright, bewildered, and felt all the drink rush to his head at once. Seemingly satisfied with herself, Mantis grinned and began to lay out a little lace tablecloth, unfolding it from the shape of a snowflake by the teapot. 

“ _ Mantis _ ,” Peter insistently said, but she only motioned with her eyes to the curtain.

There the Collector stood, his expression wry, and Peter got to his feet at once with an awkward lift of his hand.

“Sorry - was just on my way out, I know I took up too much time--”

“That’s not why I’m here.” The Collector’s voice was pleasant, good-natured, even. Peter hovered somewhere between uneasy and curious - and, admittedly, slightly drunk off the affection and stuff he’d imbibed. He blinked a few times at the other man, brows hesitantly coming together.

“I have something I need,” the Collector continued, steady and calm. “And I think you might be  _ just  _ the person to get it for me.” Where they’d furrowed in confusion before, now his eyebrows shot toward the sky in disbelief. 

“ _ Me _ ?”

“Yes,” the Collector said in a tone most congenial, and, lifting his cane, set the knob of it directly over Peter’s heart.

“After all, it  _ always  _ had to be you.”


	12. Our Eddie of the Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sir can you stop fucking up your life for .5 seconds, I'm asking for a friend.  
> no?  
> okay then let's go

###  The movements of the underground in the city were the dances Eddie Brock typically participated in.

He wasn’t much of a dancer otherwise. Clubs and things like that, they weren’t his scene unless he was working it. Hustling information out of hushed whispers, getting names, charming patrons for reasons unknown to all but him. 

It was how he’d gotten to know Madame Gao so well; how he’d laughed and clinked glasses with Leland Owlsley, and why, now, Eddie found himself facing the worst decision he’d yet made since entering the city.

Wesley didn’t typically come down for acts of this nature. He preferred to stand on high and give signals where necessary, moving like the shadow of a shadow, more direct - pleasant-looking, albeit cold behind the eyes, he was the approachable kind of bastard one might mistake for a man of business less seedy.

But where he walked, doom followed, digging its heels into the pavement, putting down roots. The empire of the afterlife was his kingdom, and he was the herald of a pale death indeed.

So when he manifested in the dark down by the docks of the New York harbor, it was the first sign that something was off about tonight. 

There were large crates gathered by the low barges; the type of things livestock got shipped in, full of hay and scattered alfalfa. The sweet-rot scent of the remaining weedy offerings filled the air along with the stink of the water and the musty remnants of fish bones. Eddie gagged against it, but held steady as he waited by the throngs of men he’d come to pepper with good-natured questions and flasks of moonshine that wouldn’t put them six feet under. 

_ No,  _ Eddie thought, eyeing Wesley in his dark plum suit with its fine gray pinstripes,  _ we’ve already got the undertaker for just that occasion. _

“Gentlemen,” Wesley motioned with his head, and the dockhands and hired help rose almost as one to wander closer to their employer. Eddie hung back in the black, hat tucked low over his face. But it hardly mattered. Everyone knew who he was.

The Devil had indicated as much, anyway.

_ “The Devil”.  _ He rolled his eyes at himself. Murdock was a man, but - some of the things he did simply couldn’t be explained away. Like how he could fight half as well without his sight, or how he always seemed to know where Eddie was - 

Even if he didn’t fully respect or understand what he was doing - or why Eddie was even doing it to begin with.

Like now. This was a lead he’d followed - someone had told him that there’d be a…”difficult shipment” tonight. One of the voices he’d coaxed out of the corner of the jazz lounge with the hand-rolled cigarettes he meticulously put together himself told him as such. Looking at the crates, he supposed he could see why - racehorses due for the Derby, no doubt, some hoity-toity rigged malarkey that promised wins with every rise and fall of flank. Rich people stuff. The wealthy and exorbitant masses would pay good money for decent blood.

Whether it ran in the streets or in equine veins, it really didn’t seem to matter.

He tuned back in to Wesley’s words to catch - 

“--matters of the utmost importance--” Okay, so evidently he hadn’t missed much. Eddie tapped a cigarette out of his case and let thoughts of the Devil drift away as he struck up the flare of a match, cupping his hand to keep the fiery tempest close to home. The tobacco swirled up to drown out the nastier scents of the air, and he lost himself in that familiar comfort as he kept his ears pricked.

“To best support Mr. Fisk’s vision of the bright new world New York City can be, we have made the decision to move forward. Ask no questions, pack these crates  _ up, _ ” Wesley’s eyes zeroed in on one man after another in the gloom, “and your pay will be double what we initially agreed upon.” Eddie bit back a whistle and instead puffed on his cigarette. These must be some damn important horses after all.

Then Wesley stepped to the side, and Eddie’s stomach plunged to the bottom of the river. 

Behind him, roped together, shivering and frightened, were women. Just...women. Everyday, ordinary-looking, if beautiful women. Every walk of life, by the looks of them, every manner of origin. Freckled or not; one with dusky skin, another with hazel eyes so bright and teary they looked like jewels.

The cigarette nearly dropped from his mouth.

“Move them quickly,” Wesley ordered, and suddenly the tip made sense - of course this was a  _ difficult  _ shipment. The women were gagged to prevent them from screaming, and Eddie wondered how,  _ how  _ the fuck this was supposed to  _ improve  _ the image of the city when - 

He caught a familiar face. Frightened; a little bit older than some of the others, dirty and smudged, but the wild brown hair and eyes to match were unmistakable. Maria. The same Maria who hung around on the corner and offered to read the paper in a would-be-sultry voice before erupting into giggles and shaking her head. Who wore red lipstick as often as she could afford, and when she ran out of it, begged for strawberries.

It clicked in his head. These were...sex workers.

Nausea roiled in his gut as he watched the men begin to separate and shepherd the women individually from place to place - the crates big enough for three; but some being given as many as four; five…

“No,” he muttered faintly - and, in one decisive movement, made up his mind.

For weeks, he’d been running in the same circles, trying to subtly extract information. He’d witnessed brutal beatings, tortures, turf wars, gunshots, and god only knew what else, but he’d seen enough.

There would be no bright future if this was allowed to continue. But who was he to interfere? Just a man with a pen and a penchant for danger. For being the gray area between light and dark. He couldn’t choose a side because he might lose the other. A foot in the trench and a foot on the ground, halfway between war and peace. 

He thought of the disappointed accusations, the disgust, the violence. How often he’d leaned into being the thing people hated because it felt right. It matched the way he felt inside; deplorable as that was to admit. Go on; then - strike him down, leave him for dead, and Eddie always found a way to make sense of it. He deserved this.

There might’ve been a Devil in Hell’s Kitchen, but there was at least a dozen more inside of Eddie Brock as he watched the women being loaded up like cattle.

Without a word, Eddie turned to collect the nearest lady, not even looking her way, and headed for a crate. It was horrible. She dug her bare feet into the gravelly ground and whimpered behind her bindings. Eddie felt that continuous buzz behind his teeth; somewhere in his brain, threatening to make him go blank behind the eyes and take a nap while his body kept working. There wasn’t any explanation for it. The war, he’d been told, left its mark on all men. His was the haunting realization that at times, he almost hadn’t survived. And so, at times, Eddie Brock became a dead man. 

But he had to live right now.

And so did all these women.

“Just stay calm,” Eddie whispered, walking her to the box. “Just go when I say go.” His hand slipped under the ropes on her wrists with the switchblade he carried, and she squirmed, but stopped making the sounds that made him want to shoot every man in a five mile radius. 

“Stay quiet,” he added out of the corner of his mouth, switchblade back in the flat of his hand. She kept her hands cupped together as if still bound --  _ smart girl  _ \-- and Eddie glanced at the other two women in the crate he’d walked her to. Almost imperceptibly, Eddie motioned with his head, and performed, quick as a wink, the same trick he’d just pulled on the ropes. Quick snips. Slices. And then --

“Go, go, go,” he whispered - and the women bolted like deer loosed through the woods; rushing out into the night with their hair uncurling, eyes wildly wide. A few men noticed; started shouting, gave chase. Good.

While their eyes were elsewhere, Eddie dropped his cigarette into the hay and made sure it caught. 

He ducked out of the empty crate as hellfire flames rose behind him, an act of defiance as much as it was the signing of his own death warrant. The dry wood and the straw curled back with a roar of flame, the suddenness of which didn’t surprise him at all, somehow.

Things were bound to burn in this town.

He supposed he should’ve said something, but - there was much more noise now, with the hollers about the flames and the way they were moving toward the next crate at an accelerated rate. There was the fire and water alike lapping for dominance on the airwaves. The blaze at his back was accusatory; Eddie not once breaking stride with the blade in his hand as he headed for another crate. The women were already being dragged out, which was just as well - 

He heard the click through the cacophony of it all and knew his endeavor was about to end abruptly. But he’d made his choice. The choice to be better than he had been, and, strangely, that was...gratifying. It was absolution of the smallest order, one good act in the midst of many horrible ones.

Eddie could’ve lied to himself, could’ve said he’d make it out of this one alive - he could’ve also lied to himself and said he  _ wasn’t _ a bad man at all; no, he was - he had good attempts. He had tried. The newspaper had caught many a crook, after all - even if they were crooks the Kingpin saw fit to put away. To clean up his town.  _ Shining  _ example.

Eddie’s eyes ticked back toward the hot flame as he felt the cold gun press itself against his back.  _ How’s that for shining? _

“That was very stupid,” Wesley pointed out unnecessarily, “do you know what you’ve just done?”

“I think I dropped my cigarette,” Eddie commented dryly - and winced as the muzzle of the gun nudged him with a warning.

“You’ve just told us you no longer wish to do business with us,” Wesley continued as if uninterrupted, “a dangerous resignation.”

“I’ve always had a thing for danger,” Eddie put in - and this time, he felt Wesley step closer. His eyes found the water and he watched the smoke climb across its surface - escaping where he couldn’t. His heart hammered hard. There were the screams of women and the crackling bursts of collapsing tinder. His tongue caught between his teeth as he debated whether or not he actually  _ had  _ done the right thing.

He supposed it didn’t matter now.

“This world will operate with or without you, Mr. Brock,” Wesley said, soft in his ear. “And it will not notice your absence in the slightest.” Eddie shut his eyes and let the darkness embrace him. Somewhere; glass shattered and a  _ boom  _ followed; the hollow rush of something igniting anew. Ethanol and absinthe cloyed at the air; spices and chemicals both. Eddie inhaled sharply. All the worst things in the world in one place, and here he was at the epicenter. 

The gun must’ve gone off, but he didn’t feel its impact initially. He felt himself rock forward, heard another dissonant burst of glass and let another wave of heat and liquor wash over him. What had been the plan, here, exactly? Set one crate on fire before getting all the captives out? He was just one man. He should’ve taken it to the bulls - who fucking  _ hated him, _ because of course, everyone did --

“Eddie!”

He could hear the cry go up from somewhere near, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the other side of -- of the trenches, or not. It could’ve been Flash, calling out to him from beyond the darkness. It could’ve been the infantryman who’d died in his arms, or the doctor who’d told him to  _ stay calm,  _ to  _ breathe through it _ as he dug the bullet out of his hip, and god, oh god, suddenly he’s so fucking tired…

“ _ Eddie _ \--” His knees struck the broken ground and his palms came forward to support him as he felt the night air waft through him --  _ through him, _ \-- cold and unmistakable. Somewhere between his third and fourth rib, there was a hole. It was shocking, as shocking as everything else tonight. It felt like a raindrop till it started to  _ burn. _ One hand fumbled off the ground, caked with grit and dirt, to cup his chest before the other arm gave out and he dropped, curling into a ball.

The hand came away red. Of course it did. That’s life.

That’s death.

He felt someone skid to a halt overhead, gun upraised, and waited for the inevitable end. Blue eyes blinked into the smoggy night and saw a head of thatched hair, a scruffy chin, the angles of the face now so well-known to him. He’d seen it for so long he’d almost forgotten how nice it was. How handsome, and how good, despite the mischief and the mayhem that followed him wherever he roamed.

Peter Quill, crouched beside him, watching the chaos unfold. Wesley; dead or at least mortally wounded, his glasses knocked off three feet from Eddie. Peter fished another small glass bottle out of his pocket and flung it into the flames. They erupted with another groan, failing to withstand the impact of the repeated attacks. There were whooping war-cries as other figures chased the Kingpin’s men out of the infernal display. Rust-colored coats.  _ Ravagers,  _ Eddie realized distantly. Peter’s hand found his face and turned it.

“Sorry,” Eddie slurred, lower lip damp. Peter’s eyes flickered worriedly across his face, then dropped to his fingers. They, too, were turning crimson. Worry advanced to horror. “Couldn’t…”

“Don’t - don’t don’t don’t,” Peter whispered furiously, one arm winding around Eddie, the other still clutching his pistol. “Just - hush. It’s okay. I got you. It’s alright, Eddie. I saw. I saw what you did, I...we’re gonna get you out of here, y’hear me? We’re gonna get out…” 

It felt familiar, Eddie realized. Peter’s arm around his chest, his head against Peter’s own, cradled in his lap. He swore he saw the skies of foreign fields filled with raiders and planes. He swore he heard the dirges in the guts of the earth as they tromped through the worst filth and muck he’d ever seen. But he’d been safest in the arms of his brothers, hopeful for the future, till everything turned bleak and cold and terrible.

But this was warmer. This was...better.

He’d done all he could. 

The last thing Eddie saw before his world went completely black was the Devil dropping down from on high, his shadow silhouetted by wings of smoke that unfurled; banners of battle, his fists already bloody.

He smiled faintly. 

_ Let the Devil dance in his stead. _


	13. The Stars Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's had just about enough of the fuss.

###  Voices.

One like caramel crackling, the other like the stoking of a stove. 

Feeding off each other in a frenzy; back and forth they went.

_ “--can’t just expect to leave him here, he needs a doctor--” _

Distantly, the bells were ringing. A church was calling the hour; a hymn behind each bonging remark. His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth.

_ “--no choice--t’ere’s nowhere else to take a man like’im. Should call t’e bulls to come collect.” _

_ “‘A man like him’,” _ a voice filled with disgust.  _ “What do you know about a man like him? He’s not all bad, you know - neither am I. Neither are you. Doesn’t he deserve a fair shot?” _

_ “T’ink he got t’at, didn’t he?”  _ There was a rush of air and a thump, followed by the first voice softly going  _ oof. _

_ “Don’t try to hit me again, Mr. Quill.” _

_ “Wouldn’t--dream of it.” _

A couple of tired blinks brought Eddie the focus of a glass ceiling. Panels upon panels cracked and peeling yellow with time roved overhead, watery daylight filtering in with a few scattered, dried-up leaves. A stretch gave him nothing but pain, and Eddie curled into a little ball in an effort to stop the agony. His chest creaked and he groaned, and that got the voices to stop for a time.

“--my point is,” the Devil was saying - as Eddie picked his head up slightly to try and hear better despite the anguish in his chest, “ye should ask him what’e was doin’ down t’ere.”

“Oh, you mean like what you or I were doing down there?” Peter countered hotly. There was a beleaguered pause as the Devil considered - then, with a cunning purr to his voice, asked sweetly:

“What  _ were  _ ye doin’ down t’ere, Mr. Quill?”

“Oh -- you’re awake,” Peter said suddenly, and Eddie heard a flurry of movement before the furniture he was on creaked; threatening to drop entirely. The sofa, then - this was Peter’s apartment. His home. Eddie was back in Peter’s house. A pair of hands pawed his face to get him to turn, and Eddie uttered a sharp noise of complaint that made the hands fly away.

“I’m sorry!” Peter watched, round-eyed, as Eddie’s tired eyes finally found focus on his own. “I just - you’re alright! I mean, you’re obviously not alright, everything’s far from berries, but the worst of it is over.”

“Wh’happened,” Eddie asked; voice a raggedy slap of sound. Peter nervously glanced from the stone-faced Devil in his dark bandana, then back to Eddie. Silence tried to settle; but, ever-moving, ever-roving, Peter pressed on, scooting a little closer to Eddie as he propped a deflated pillow up behind his back.

“It was - it was incredible, really, you were incredible --” His head swung as Peter spoke directly to the Devil. “You  _ both _ were! I’d never seen anything like it. I mean, I’ve seen men get shot before, sure, but--” 

“Peter.”

“Right.” Peter wet his lips and sank back against the cushions, hands nervously fidgeting with one of the fraying threads nearest to him.

“I saw what you did. For those women. And I made sure the rest of the Ravagers got them out okay, Kraglin got them squared away at our -- our place. They weren’t that much worse for the wear. We got’em all out, Eddie.” Peter’s scratchy voice softened as he smiled up at the injured man; earnest. “Because of you.”

“Oh, yes, between gettin’ shot and nearly burnin’ down half the bloody city,  _ bravo _ ,” the Devil droned, clapping slowly behind Peter and Eddie as they sat on the sofa. Peter shot him a withering stare, the hand picking at the threads inching closer to Eddie now instead. Too bone-weary to move or react much otherwise, Eddie muttered,

“Tell me the rest.” He didn’t rise to take Matt’s bait, and he could tell from the way his jaw clenched and clicked, that was  _ poorly _ -received.  _ Good. _

“Then - then the Devil here, he came  _ flying  _ in, out of nowhere, like --” Peter imitated the descent with his hand and a sound affect, and briefly, Eddie tensed - thinking of the planes above the fields, but  _ no, _ a car’s motor rumbled outside and the cries of Spanish fish-sellers filled the air. They were safe, all of them, far away from any battlefield that wasn’t to be fought on...home turf, as it were. It turned over in his mind; an engine that kept backfiring.  _ Home. Home. Home. _

Why was it that the longer Peter spoke, the more at home he felt?

The intrusive thought almost cost him his full attention as he fought to hang onto consciousness and the story at hand, and Eddie exhaled slowly. His hand slipped neatly into Peter’s own as if it’d always been there, and, taking that to heart as Eddie used him as an anchor, Peter let his voice rise, emboldened in the telling of the tale. 

“He came down and he just --” Peter punched the air with his free arm, jostling Eddie in the process - a tightening of his mouth and a blink of watery eyes held back the sound of pain. He could picture it, the black shadow like a bat stealing across scorched brick. The set of his mouth. Mutinous and bloodthirsty. “Took’em all out, anyone who was still standing. People were screaming bloody murder. Screamin’ mimis, all’a them! He moved like - like I don’t even know, like a  _ dance _ . They all danced with the  _ Devil _ , but he was the only one to leave the floor.”

“S’good, Pete,” Eddie said groggily, nodding to himself. He’d have to remember that line for later. Broad fingers twitched; desperate for a pen. Any kind of purchase he was best familiar with. Sure as hell wasn’t any of this. Behind them, he could hear the creak of floorboards as Matt, apparently agitated by Peter’s claim, began to pace. Eddie was...surprised he’d stayed this long, actually. Figured he’d be the type to cut and flee the minute he opened his eyes, but he hadn’t bailed yet. As such, it puzzled him. As puzzled as he could be beyond the discomfort and the brush with death. 

Right. His hand fumbled for his shirt, and Eddie hauled the thin thing up to inspect the bandages beneath - wincing with the effort. Peter hopped back to give him space, but still clung to his fingers. Just-barely. As if Eddie was a trapeze and he was preparing to swing forward again. 

“He -- he stitched you up. Fixed you up real good, Eddie, I saw. He’s -- he’s good with his hands.”

“Oh, I figured he might be,” Eddie muttered, a little lick of his regular fire sparking at the edges of his words. The pacing stopped.

Suddenly, the Devil was there, leaning over the high back of the sofa. The menacing angle he manifested; jagged and jaded, made his jaw look like marble beneath the ash-black covering. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth, driven by rage:

“Ye ungrateful, lousy, no-account -- ”

“Hey, hey, hey,  _ hey, _ ” Peter said, one hand lifting to push the Devil back, frowning warningly. His other fingers slipped free of Eddie’s own, and the cold draft that caught between his digits made Eddie curse the Devil even more. For a moment, everything simmered in displeasure, and the reporter slipped his shirt back down, tucking it haphazardly into place.

“Look - I only really know one of you even a little,” Peter said carefully, hands lowering back to his lap. “But -- I know for certain you’re both good men.” That earned him a snort from either direction. Peter swiveled to glance between the two of them, exasperated. “No - you are! And - I’m not an idiot, I know there’s bad things, too, but both of you seem to think that I’m some kinda saint when I’m  _ not, _ ” Peter thumped a fist against the sofa for emphasis, then sighed. “I wouldn’t be here with the two of you if I wasn’t up to my neck in trouble anyway. So why can’t we just agree that we’re in this together, one way or another?”

“Matthew.”

“‘Scuze me?” Peter peeked over the sofa at the Devil, who’d turned his back to the two of them, arms crossed.

“Ye said ye only really know one of us,” the Devil spoke to the air, then reached up with both hands to begin untying the knot at the back of his head. Peter froze. Eddie, still prone on the couch, could only surmise at what was going on -- but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be anything good. Namely because once this happened --

“My name. It’s Matthew.” When he turned, the Devil was gone. In its place; a man -- doe-eyed and distantly done, his features comprised of compromised emotion. There was fear, there was anger, there were subtler things - things Peter couldn’t quite make out. And he remembered, suddenly, with vivid alacrity, the press of lips against his skin in the rain. In the alley. In the night. His jaw went a little slack with it, and his gaze softened.

From his angle on the couch, Eddie watched it all - till he shut his eyes and willed unconsciousness to come claim him as a lover again. To drown him deeply in the sleep of the century. He wanted gin, he wanted silence, he wanted  _ out  _ of this whole ordeal. He’d tried to do the right thing. For the wrong reasons, no doubt.

Matt, as if reading his mind, spoke again:

“I’ve seen him work t’is system, Peter. People like Edward -- “  _ Don’t, _ Eddie wanted to say, but he was much too exhausted. “Charles -- “  _ Oh good, so the whole thing, then. _ “Allan Brock -- t’ey don’t stop. T’ey don’t decide to suddenly be good people. T’ey might fool t’emselves into t’inkin’ t’at t’ey are, but in truth, t’ey’re just as damned as t’e rest. Just trying to look better fer Judgment Day ahead of t’em.” Each word rang true in Eddie, clear as a hammer nailing down a coffin lid. 

Peter’s face flushed, and his hackles raised; the bootlegger lifting himself upright - removing the stoop from his shoulders clear as a king shirking a mantle. The cloak of  _ aw shucks _ fell to the floor and dissolved as Peter got to his feet.

“And what about me?” He asked flatly. “What about all the lives I’ve taken and all the giggle water?” Matt made a face, lifting a hand as if to bat away the accusations. Peter, hot under the collar, stepped out from around the couch.

“Don’t,” Eddie muttered. “Just - leave it. I’ll get up inna bit and go.”

“Stay right where you are,” Peter ordered, with more authority than Eddie thought possible. His mouth slipped shut from the force of it. Peter rounded on Matt, then hesitated - suddenly aware of those piercing eyes that also didn’t focus; that saw nothing but the shadows where light couldn’t go. It shocked him for just enough time to almost lose his train of thought. But he landed on:

“You do what you do in order to correct the things gangs do; things  _ I  _ do, that Eddie  _ writes about; tells police about, _ the worst parts of the city. You’re doing all you can, from what I hear, and so is he. So am I. We’re just trying to  _ survive this _ , Matthew.” Instinctively, Peter lifted his hand to touch the side of his face, trying to bring him, too, back to that foggy sidestreet after a fight. Matt shuddered from the touch, trying to tilt his head away. Peter followed with his fingers, warm and careful.

“Sounds to me like you’re both seeking redemption from different angles.” His hand fell away, and Peter stepped back toward the woodstove. Matt hovered in the empty space of the apartment, his heart beating hard and fast beneath his breastbone. The church bells in the distance had long since died away, but he could feel them swinging, still, somewhere inside of him. His hands trembled and curled; fists of protection. One thumb hooked the rosary tied to his belt. 

“So give each other a chance, wouldja? Since neither of you will  _ actually  _ ever leave me alone. Even though I’m not looking for redemption,” Peter rambled on, shoving a few pieces of tinder into the belly of the heater, “I’m just here for a good time.” He chuckled, apparently pleased with himself in that regard.

“It wouldn’t kill you to realize I’m capable on my own. And it also  _ probably  _ wouldn’t kill you to get along. Might even be good for ya.”

Matt and Eddie turned toward one another - as much as either of them could - Eddie’s eyes ticking Matt’s way, and Matthew sparing him the slight angle of his body for consideration. 

“...Parlay?” Eddie joked wryly, not really feeling the humor. He owed Matt his life, now - that hadn’t gone unnoticed. Matt tensed his mouth, preparing to speak - 

But somewhere, an alarm began to sound.

And in an instant, as if pulled by an unseen hand wrapped around the leash of vengeance, Matt whipped his wrapping back over his face and shot out the nearest pane of glass; the open window into the early morning air that smelled of wet leaves and concrete. 

He was gone before Peter or Eddie even had a chance to say goodbye.

They’d have to wait another week for any sort of answer.


	14. A Tedious Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when u get shot u gotta heal, them's the rules. SUCKS BRUH, in front of a cute guy, no less.  
> [some of these are serious summaries, some aren't. Them's the breaks.]

###  The week passed by in miserable tedium. 

Eddie’d tried to get up more than once; only to find that the weight of the bullet that’d cut clean through his ribs still bogged him down. He could only sit upright for a few minutes at a time, and by the time he managed to be vertical, dizziness set in. He’d tried not to throw up on anything important, but, given the state of the shabby apartment, it was a little hard to know what was and what wasn’t. So he stuck to a bin, he stuck to the couch, and overall, Eddie counted what few blessings he could to try and get by.

He was  _ supposed  _ to be a patient man. Even when a patient himself. But all he could think was how badly he wanted to know how the docks had gone down. Would they play it off in the news as some tragic accident? Did the ladies make it out okay? Was the Devil still out there, doing his dark work, ensuring evildoers got the punishment they deserved? 

Eddie supposed he’d have to wait to find out. Like tomorrow’s newspaper. God. He hadn’t been back to his work; hadn’t been able to contact them, hell, it even hurt to hold a pen - but he jotted what he could down nonetheless, trying to capture the details of the docks as he remembered them. If nothing else, a delay in the story was just that. It  _ would  _ be told, if it had to be. And wherever Wesley’s body went, there’d be a trail. There  _ had to be. _

“...About that,” he said aloud to himself on the third day, brows furrowing. Peter, humming as he set something in the corner of the room, perked up a little at the sound of Eddie’s voice. “Peter - I got a question for ya.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Peter chirped back cheerfully, making his way over to the couch with a lanky swing in every stride. It was hard, Eddie noted, not to smile when Peter approached. If only because he looked two seconds away from all parts of himself flying off in different directions. Pulling his head from the clouds the crown of golden hair brushed daily, Peter came back to Earth with a radiant grin, sprawling his arms on the back of the sofa, chin propped atop them. 

_ How wonderful,  _ Eddie realized,  _ to be smiled at like nobody else in existence matters. _

The thought got brushed away, and Eddie cleared his throat slightly, wriggling his better shoulder back against the threadbare pillows. Peter had been nothing short of insatiably generous with the way he’d let Eddie stay here, with him...and tried to take care of him. It was a little sloppy, but well-meant. Sometimes he thwacked the pillows behind Eddie to give him more leverage that simply wouldn’t come [the state of them was...disastrous], or fed him whatever he managed to pilfer from the market [day two had found Eddie mesmerized by the rain of fruits, vegetables, and breads Peter managed to shake out of his enormous coat onto the spool-shaped table - followed by the release of a sizable cod Eddie didn’t even  _ know  _ how he  _ hid _ ]...

All of which made him want to take the savings he’d been stacking in coffee cans in a small pyramid in his own apartment and...absolve the guilt he felt; taking up space, time, and resources from Peter. Pay for a better bed, a better couch, little furnishings fit for the king of the clouds who lived high above everything - as close to the stars as he could possibly get. 

“Eddie?” Peter’s mild voice cut through the fog he’d slipped into just by looking too long at that overgrown boy. “Weren’t you gonna ask me somethin’?” His voice might’ve played innocent, but the look in his eyes was anything but. Eddie frowned back at him without really putting any effort behind it, and, with a grimace, propped an elbow against the arm of the sofa, trying to sit up a little bit more. It felt better than yesterday, at any rate. Maybe he’d survive this yet.

“Right - I just...there’s a detail I’m not sure on. Was wonderin’ if you could help me clarify the story.” Something wary stole over Peter’s face then, but he nodded, one long leg swinging up over the other end of the sofa so he could climb into Eddie’s space more directly. Eddie dragged his legs up toward himself to make room, but - inevitably, Peter, long as he was, ended up entangled with him, regardless. It was oddly intimate, but - 

Didn’t seem to bother him overly-much, so Eddie figured he’d best make do.

“You’re...gonna write about what happened?” Peter asked - the mirth had left his voice, now, and Eddie was sorry to hear it go. His eyes shifted Peter’s way as he paused in scribbling on his makeshift notepad, and, brow furrowing, Eddie nodded. Just a little. “...be careful, please,” Peter implored, fingers restlessly dancing over his chest before moving away again, tugging at fraying fabric beside him. “It’s - not safe.”

“Yeah, Matty made that perfectly clear,” Eddie remarked dryly. Peter shot him a look that emulated a kicked puppy, and Eddie followed up by kicking  _ himself  _ internally. “Look - I know the nature’a what I do ain’t exactly on the level, but - some things need to be talked about. That went too far the other night, they all did - takin’ women outta their homes, or - or off the street, I won’t stand for that kinda shit…” Eddie drew in a breath and winced, hand rising over his injury. Peter’s fingers followed; hovering uncertainly in the air - before moving back toward himself when Eddie motioned him away. Impatiently.

“Point is, I need to stop bein’ a coward. Properly. He wasn’t wrong about me there.” Matt’s voice, tinged with anger, had tormented him for days like he truly was the Devil. Eddie’d asked for rations of moonshine. To medicate the bullet hole, but to medicate his mind as well. To drown out that voice that would sound better if it muttered reverent prayer; or - 

Eddie clenched his jaw.

“Anyway. Off the record. The question.” Peter, face still slightly troubled, nodded accordingly, focusing back in on Eddie’s face after lifting his gaze from the thin threads unraveling between his digits. Eddie purposefully tucked his pencil behind his ear, peering at Peter for a long moment. Then, in a voice of gravel and sod, pulled somewhere up from the bottom of the great and filthy river, Eddie asked at last:

“Who shot James Wesley?” 

There was a beat of silence as Peter blinked at Eddie - then smiled.

“...I did.” It was said bashfully, like someone being caught for mischief, rather than murder. The hand prying at the threads on the couch drifted closer before it lighted in brief on Eddie’s leg, squeezing. Affectionate. Strangely, wildly affectionate. 

“Couldn’t let’im hurt ya, Eddie,” Peter said, easy as you please, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t risked something that could’ve put him away. Ruined his life. That the bulls wouldn’t take into consideration every step of the way to try and bring him down. “Couldn’t let’im  _ kill ya, _ shoot. Him or any of his goons…” 

Peter’s hand brushed his knee again, and Eddie jolted; this time, just a little. Like a delayed ripple effect, he felt a shiver pass down his spine. Peter’s fingers slowed, and, biting his bottom lip, the other withdrew. His hand retreated. Eddie felt cold.

“...y’saved me,” Peter added; simply earnest. “Twice. Looks like I still owe ya for one.” He fashioned another smile out of fantasies of heroism and happiness; and Eddie looked upon it like it was the only light in the room. The sun was fading behind them, pale white rays trickling golden as they hit the glass. Golden; like Peter’s hair. Golden, like Peter’s heart.

“...how’d you get all mixed up in this, Pete?” Eddie asked; suddenly tired. “How’d you come to be so good, but so -” Words failed him, and he hated himself for it. “So…”

“So bad?” Peter’s tone had regained its teasing composure, and he chuckled to himself. “I...guess I just - couldn’t settle down. You know, always - always gettin’ into trouble, since I was little, bit…” He hesitated, then, and for a moment, the sunshine found the places of hurt on his face that hadn’t been there before. Angles of grief; of doubt, of loss - something haunted that refused to hide away forever.  _ There was a story there,  _ Eddie realized.

A story that hadn’t ended yet, by the looks of things.

But - a blink, and it all went away - gone, buried beneath an eyetooth buried in his bottom lip; fluttered free of sandy lashes. Peter was all smiles again; jovial and sweet. 

“Just found a use for my talents, I guess.”  _ Like marksmanship, _ Eddie tacked on silently. If he recalled correctly, Wesley had been shot  _ right between the eyes. _ The thought trawled a shiver down his spine colder than the harbor in March. 

“...well - thank you, for - for savin’ me,” Eddie muttered. He wanted to keep flipping the rocks and logs in the forest of Peter’s mind, seeking answers in the murkier places that sunshine didn’t quite reach - but that was cruel, and destructive, and, quite frankly, not his place, if he had to wager a guess. He could be curious all he wanted, but that didn’t change the fact that people were allowed their secrets.

Eddie had a few of his own himself, after all. And judging by the company they kept [or, more accurately, kept them - for whatever reason], so did Peter. 

Matt was a secret wrapped in another secret and tied with  _ rage,  _ but - he wasn’t here. Peter was, and Peter stayed beside him. Lull growing, Eddie opened his mouth to come up with something to break the silence, but Peter beat him to it. 

“You uh - you in pain any? I got some more bootleg from the gin mill…” Eddie reached up to get his pencil out from behind his ear, and Peter shifted a little on the couch at the exact wrong moment - the utensil ended up going flying to the floor. “Oh - I’m half-under already, I’m so sorry...lemme get that for ya - ”

“No - Pete, I got it.” Eddie tiredly swung his better arm out toward the floor, reaching. Straining. Peter hovered over him, doing similar. Helping. Always helping. The two of them seemed to want to outdo one another in the act of being helpful - from opposite ends of the spectrum.

“It’s okay - Eddie you just lie back, it’s fine - “ Peter started to step off the couch, but his too-long leg caught Eddie’s own in the process, and he swung sharply right. 

“Ow -  _ fuck _ \- !” Eddie barked as Peter landed squarely on his chest. The other man scrabbled upright  _ immediately,  _ hazel eyes full of panic. Eddie, ashen in the face all of a sudden, cupped a hand to his injury and counted backwards from ten. The last thing he needed was to lash out in reactionary wrath right about now. But  _ fuck  _ if that hadn’t stung like crazy. 

Better than being riddled with more bullets, he assumed,  _ but shit! _

“I...am so, so so  _ so  _ sorry, Eddie,” Peter stammered, hands back to levitating over Eddie’s torso as if unsure of where to land. His fingers plucked a bit at the other man’s shirt, gingerly tugging it into place. A little red stain caught his eye, but a quick touch told him it was dry. “I - I can change your bandages. If - if you want, I can - check on that, I’m really,  _ really  _ sorry…” Eddie caught Peter’s hand, exhausted and exasperated. Pitiful eyes the color of a frog pond studied him overhead, and in the last brushstrokes of sunset, golden flakes emerged in the ripples around dark pupils. 

Eddie kept holding Peter’s hand as the other all but sat on his legs, the two of them entangled in a moment suddenly made heavier than themselves. It drew them both down toward the couch, one inch after another, and Eddie watched Peter’s face with care. With interest. With...everything that he was, as if he wanted to memorize the way the sun cradled his features and turned him into something...downright holy. 

He could see what Matt - well. He knew what Matt liked, then. He’d known for a while, just at a different angle. Peter was a perfect crystal; catching the light. Refracting it a thousand times over. He filled his world of glass and starlight as a part of it; spectacular. Sparkling. He was a glass of fine, bubbly alcohol, sweet nectar made to savor. To enjoy. Eddie drank in the sight of him and drowned himself in the warmth of it all.

A fraction, just a fraction, just a mere millimeter of change, and Eddie brushed his lips against Peter’s fingers. They twitched, but didn’t move, and Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Blood flooded south; the mere caress enough to open the window into the descent of the night. 

In the darkness, they could be safe. 

Even if Eddie knew Peter belonged to the light.

For one night, maybe - maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, to know the sun. To eclipse it. Just a little. Peter was leaning in, and down, and sinking into him the way the great burning ball in the sky sank beyond the horizon and the harbor. The silhouettes of steel structures-to-be, skeletal sentinels holding up the sky, vanished into the background. Nothing existed save the scent of leather, liquor, cedar, and fire from the woodstove.

Nothing existed save the way Peter’s legs found space between his, and tangled them close. Eddie ached; he hurt, but it wasn’t in a way he understood anymore. 

Their lips caught as Peter melted over him; a cascade of gilded promises whispered from a mouth prone to rambling. That much Eddie knew about him for sure. He knew that, and he knew how the hot pressure felt against his thigh, and how one hand rose to cup Peter’s face, ink-stained and adoring. His shuddering breath; a moaning spirit between them borne by the sting of moonshine coaxing their connection into being again, caught on Peter’s own. Hands like midday rays coasted up under his shirt, rucking across skin. His back arched, and - 

“ _ Ow. _ ” He winced, withdrawing, and Peter, pulling back from his mouth, looked chagrined again. 

They stared at one another for a long moment, uncertain of what to do. Peter, swallowing, slowly started to pull back, and Eddie reached for him, this time - midnight sorry to see the stars pass by overhead.  _ Don’t leave me.  _

“...I should um - moonshine. Bandages. I should get those things.” Peter didn’t move.

“Yeah, pro’lly,” Eddie agreed, and did nothing whatsoever.

They continued to look at one another, trying to steady themselves in one another. Peter; after a time, raised a hand to brush a thumb across Eddie’s mouth, tracing its shape. Eddie loosely clasped Peter’s wrist, not to hold - just to have. For a second. For two. For three.

They jerked apart at the sound of someone hammering at the door, a gruff voice ordering - 

“ _ Pete! We’re due down at the docks. Ten minutes. Git yer ass down there, boy, if ya know what’s good fer ya! _ ”

“Y-yeah! Yeah, Yondu, just a sec,  _ dry up, _ ” Peter muttered the last bit under his breath, detangling himself from Eddie’s legs and lifting himself up off the sofa. One hand pressed himself into place as best he could, trying to be - presentable. Manageable. Better. Decent, at least.

His eyes ticked back to Eddie; troubled, and lingered on the way he tried to fix his face. Presentable. Manageable. Better.

Devastated; maybe - then - 

Decent.

_ At least. _

“I’ll be back soon as I can, okay?” Peter said softly, encouragingly. “Don’t - don’t try to do anything that might hurt ya. I…I can send somebody to check on ya, if - if I take too long.”

Not wanting to see anyone, to be near  _ anyone, _ other than Peter, Eddie merely nodded. Agreeing. Because he had to. Because there were no other options for a man like him.

Or a man like Peter Quill.

“...be safe,” he told him, rather than anything else. Anything else would’ve been  _ selfish. _ Eddie’d been selfish enough already, taking all that he had.

And he took one last look at Peter, longingly, as he left, too.

Because all Eddie ever did  _ was take. _


	15. The Mask Stays On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a lil bonding between bois u know how it be

###  As he’d worried, Peter was delayed.

Eddie waited for him in the long hours of the day, getting up only to try and pace off some of the nerves that followed such long instances of silence. He wasn’t vertical long - if anything, it was a hobble to the area that served as a kitchen to tear off a hunk of bread before curling back up on the couch.

Down below, he could hear the city at work. The distant clangs and hisses of steam, the clack of wheels and whistling shouts under the windows...all seemed louder, somehow, now that he had less to distract himself with.

Every so often, Eddie ran a hand over his mouth, remembering the feeling of Peter’s lips on his own. Of his warmth, his sudden, clumsy breath against his mouth, chasing the taste of smoke or moonshine. 

He’d tried to write a few more things, but something tore in his chest and he was forced to settle back down, annoyed at himself. It shouldn’t take this long to recover from something - it should’ve been over. He should’ve never gone to the docks, clearly, it’d only made things worse. 

And more confusing.

He passed a hand over his mouth again and let it linger, eyes closed.

At some point, Eddie figured he must’ve fallen asleep, because suddenly, it was dusk, and the first of the stars were poking out from behind puffy white clouds parting in the skies overhead. The great glass windows open to the night sky twinkled; too - splashed with passing dew from the very same storm now drifting off out to sea.

Digging the heel of a hand into the corner of his eye, Eddie groaned and pushed a hand back against the couch before pausing.

Adjusting to the lower light, he hadn’t realized there was a shadow in the doorway. His hand dove for the gun he typically kept under his vest, only to remember, too late and with a  _ great  _ deal of pain, that he didn’t currently  _ have that  _ right now.

With a soft “ah,  _ fuck _ ”, Eddie fumbled for something,  _ anything  _ else to defend himself with - and came up with his pen. He knew laying horizontally, stylus in hand, looking about as washed up as a fish on the beach, wasn’t exactly  _ menacing,  _ but - 

“Oh, what’re ye goin’ t’do?” Mocked a familiar voice out of the blackness. “Give me bad press?” 

Eddie; frozen for a few more seconds out of fear - felt something snap inside of him at the realization of just  _ who  _ that voice belonged to. The pen whipped out of his hand with all the vengeance he could muster. 

“Ah, Christ,” Eddie snapped into the abyss and the man that held it, “can’t you stay away?”

The pen struck a palm as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen strode over the threshold, flicking the door open further with his free set of fingers. A foot kicked it shut;  _ sharply,  _ behind him, and the curl of the smirk under the black wrappings was positively  _ vicious. _

“Ye don’t get t’decide t’at,” Matt said calmly, the pen set down on the spool table, now very much out of reach. Heart kicking up with agitation, Eddie wrestled a hand under the cushions for anything else. Surely Peter kept a spare gun, or something - 

“I’m not here t’hurt ye,  _ leathcheann, _ ” Matt added, a flicker of annoyance brushing the word with heat. 

“Bullshit,” Eddie swore, still scrabbling his hand around. His chest hurt something fierce again; damp and strained. “Bull _ shit, _ and says  _ who  _ I don’t get a say in who comes to see me?”

“Me,” Matt’s voice growled as he came closer, the same steady pace so eerily soundless on the battered wooden floor. One hand caught the back of a chair as Matt hauled it behind himself, and, with a deft spin, he moved it to face Eddie backwards, his arms coming up over the back of the chair. Sprawled against it, almost catlike, Matt seemed to study Eddie through the folds of dark fabric. Heart in his throat, Eddie swallowed around the nerves, hand slowing beneath the pillows. “An’ Peter, who  _ asked me t’be here. _ ” 

“...where is he?” Eddie asked, wary. Matt didn’t answer; only tightened his jaw. “Fine,” Eddie muttered. “Fine! Do as you please, you seem to do that anyway.” Something clenched in Matt’s face like a fist curling its fingers, and Eddie raised his chin, defiantly waiting for the strike that didn’t come. 

“Ye’ve torn yer stitches,” Matt noted, features once more expressionless beneath their coverings. “I can smell t’e blood poolin’ under t’e bandages. Ye’ve strained muscles. Ye had moonshine at three today and slept directly followin’.” Eddie shrank back slightly at these unwarranted observations, a deer in the headlights of the glowing evening - and the sightless stare that he knew waited beyond the thin strip of obsidian. 

“...it’s fine,” Eddie said, once he remembered what to say. “It’s - I’m fine. In fact, I think I should be going soon. I’m almost mended.”

“T’e Hell ye are,” Matt all but  _ drawled,  _ the scoff of mirth as scalding as a hot scotch. “I could fix t’em fer ye, if ye promise t’hold still like t’e good boy ye aren’t.” Something in that sarcastic statement drove his blood pressure skyward, and, shooting upright despite the wrench of discomfort, Eddie slid his legs back over the edge of the sofa and rocketed to his feet.

“Don’t,” Matt suggested mildly. “Sit. Stay. Good boy.”

“You think you know everything,” Eddie breathed, trembling with rage. “Y-you-you think you're some kind of -  _ self-righteous _ \- sanctimonious - “ 

Matt chuckled out a faint  _ ohoho _ as Eddie, too shaky to stay upright for very long, sat back down  _ hard  _ on the couch. One hand lifted to his chest and came away stained; the red leak finally making its way through layers of gauze and fabric. Nausea swirling in his gut, Eddie closed his red right hand and grit his teeth around one last barb:

“You are  _ such  _ a bastard.” Matt mimed a shrug with his mouth at that and swung up and off the chair in a practiced twirl. Equally mute as before; the movement was positively acrobatic, a fluid exchange from sit to stand, unraveling like a black ribbon on the breeze. In the moonlight, his hair was just a bit redder than usual - a trick of the phantom dark that he wore like the mantle of war.

“Am I really a bastard fer trying t’keep ye from doin’ this t’yerself?” Matt motioned to Eddie before his hands fell instead to his hips. “Lay back down and I’ll get t’e needle and t’read.” Eddie, glowering at him, grudgingly sank back down onto the cushions. Something flashed white in Matt’s face, and it took Eddie a moment to realize it was not the baring of fangs, but instead, the slightest gleam of a smile.

“Good boy.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie suggested, and Matt said nothing as he sauntered off to find what he sought before. How he did that; how he moved without bumping into anything - all of him; eerie and incomprehensible - was beyond Eddie. And yet, as he watched, Matt knocked on a couple of cupboards and drawers, and, seemingly satisfied, produced needle and thread as if he himself lived in the apartment. Not Peter.

God, where  _ was  _ Peter? Eddie’s brow furrowed as he tried not to think about what a delay could possibly mean. It wasn’t his business anyway. 

The sooner he untangled himself from whatever messy web he’d woven himself into, the better. No more heroics, no more meddling with Peter  _ or  _ Matthew, for that matter. That much he vowed. Back to what he was good at -

Messing things up so much the system destroyed itself. Good or bad, rhyme or reason - whatever the case, he’d help something fall apart. Putting it back together or righting it wasn’t his style - he knew that now.

Maybe it’d been the days of sulking on the sofa, but some part of that felt phony. Sullen. Maudlin. He brushed aside the stroppy sentiments and tried to focus on - 

Matt, who was now back at his side, needle, thread, and fresh bindings in hand. The stink of liquor - to cauterize the wound, he assumed [he hoped] hung in the air; hazy as moonlight.

“I’m goin’ t’touch ye,” Matt told him, to which he received a sardonic “lucky me” that he greeted with a quick  _ pop  _ of his knuckles to the side of Eddie’s jaw. 

“Ow - aren’t you supposed to be helping?”

“Aren’t ye supposed to be holdin’ still?” Matt countered. Eddie, rubbing his face, dropped his hand after a moment to return to moping, his simmering glare apparently lost on the man in black. Eddie did at least count himself lucky he’d been struck with the hand  _ not _ currently turning the needle between its thumb and forefinger. 

A shift of his shirt and Eddie was freed of it, the bandages drawn off with deft hands that worked in a blur; attending to the wound that’d opened like a lazy eye in his chest. Just above his heart, the hole oozed tired; crimson. Matt, hands steady, dug the needle into Eddie’s skin and pulled the thread through. Neat as hooking a fish. Clean as a seamstress.

“Fuck,” Eddie said aloud; just to fill in the silence - to let go of some of the pain. Matt flicked his ear. “I didn’t even - I’m not moving,” he protested, flicked for each offense. But, taking the hint after the fact, he let his mouth stay closed. Matt sewed, slow and careful, hand moving up, moving down. Strokes of healing; of mercy. Of penance. The threads felt both like lashes against his back and a hand gently brushing its knuckles across his face. It was like pinching a match or a candle. Warmth and pain all at once.

“...T’at should hold ye. Half a mind t’sew ye to the sofa,” Matt said dryly, bandages winding up and around Eddie’s torso over a small bundle of gauze. Eddie wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak yet, so he simply scowled. Matt smiled like he knew, and shook his head ever-so-slightly. 

“Feel free t’complain, but if ye pop yer stitches again, I shan’t be fixin’ em.”

“...shocked you did that in the first place,” Eddie announced, relieved to have use of his tongue again. Even if it was just to wag with disdain. “I thought for sure you’d leave me to die. Probably be happy about it, too.”

“ _ Leathcheann tu, _ ” Matt spat back, acrid again. Hackles raised and ire up.  _ Good. _ They’d almost gotten too comfortable. Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “Who d’ye t’ink got ye away from t’e fire at t’e docks? Who followed ye t’ere? Who sewed ye up t’begin wit’ so ye wouldn’t  _ die  _ in t’e streets like t’e dog y’act like?”

“Buncha baloney,” Eddie shot back, voice raw and snarling, “you were there for  _ Peter. _ ” Matt reeled like he’d been struck, and Eddie watched; satisfied, as his hands curled again.  _ C’mon then, end it. End it. _

_ End me. _

But, to his surprise, Matt deflated - slightly. Broad shoulders fell, and scrappy fingers uncurled. How had he never noticed the perpetual bruising of his knuckles? The telltale signs of fights yellowing and purpling his fingers? He was littered with them, the places his violence kissed his enemies good night. Perhaps once and for all, but no - 

Matt Murdock was not a killer.

Almost disappointed, Eddie settled again, letting the silence go. 

“...Thank you,” he said, curt and gruff. He meant it, though. For whatever sorry worth his life had, he preferred to keep it. For the time being. Sometimes. 

Matt’s head ticked his way, lips coming tautly together. Waiting. 

“...For saving me, even if you didn’t want to.”

Wiping the blood off his hands on the remaining scraps of fabric, Matt frowned down at the floor. Something nagged in the back of his head about all of it, something that scolded him and called him a fool for even trying to fix this - this man beyond help. Because he was, wasn’t he?

They both were. Beyond help. Only one of them wanted to atone for that, and - 

“I’m sorry.” This time, Matt picked his head up with enough force to nearly rock out of the seat he’d settled back into. “...for putting people at risk, for - handling all of this like it’s some kinda chess game. I don’t know how to play chess,” Eddie said tiredly. 

“And I don’t know when to quit while I’m ahead.”

Another lull, and then Matt spoke again - less fire; more ash.

“...Seems like we’re alike in t’at regard, Mr. Brock.”

“...Please call me Eddie again,” came the exhausted request. “Or I’m gonna start referrin’ to you as Mr. Devil.” That drew a snort of surprise out of Matt; the faintest puff of amusement, and Eddie managed a thin smile himself in response. 

“Eddie, t’en.” Matt nodded, allowing that much. Something he didn’t know he was holding half as tightly unwound within him. Eddie relaxed, as much as he could, seeing the angles of Matt as etched in the starlight. 

“By the way…” Eddie grinned, just a little “...you gonna wear that mask all night?” Matt lifted a hand, then paused, head cocked. Ten flights down, something rattled. Clicked. Someone trying to be quiet. Not an occupant. Not a tenant. Something else. Someone else. 

Soundless, he stole to his feet, turning in place to put himself between Eddie and the doorway.

“Matt?” Eddie asked warily, but the hand that’d drifted into the air now forcefully shushed; motioning for him to be silent. This time, he did so without question or hesitation - gaze darting between Matt and the door.

“Someone’s coming,” Matt said, barely a whisper. Eddie woefully looked at the pen on the table, then up to Matt’s back, the only shield between himself and oblivion.

Probably a good thing the mask had stayed on then, after all.


	16. Deja Vu-Do You Do So Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music should link in-text, but in case it doesn't: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VK6IeIj1LN8 
> 
> Lil look into the wheelings and dealings of Peter Quill.

###  _“What_ **were** _ye doin’ down t’ere, Mr. Quill?”_

The question kept coming back to Peter as he worked to stack the crates in the back of the wagon, his movements quick and impatient despite the need for discretion. With every clink of glass, Yondu hissed a warning, and Peter pouted just a bit harder.

The Ravagers moved under cover of the new moon; the lack of light something that made Peter only slightly uneasy. The street lamps had been doused and the river only reflected the hazy glow of windows still active into the late hours. The water’s stench lapped lazily at his nose, and Peter gagged, ducking his face into the corner of his jacket’s collar. He was far too scattered and restless to be of much use other than the automated effort in piling boxes higher. And higher. And - 

“ _ Careful, _ ” Kraglin snapped, one hand lifting to catch the crate that teetered just a bit too far to the left. Peter started, apologies flitting across his face without making it into his mouth. “That’s worth more’n your life, boy.”

That stung, but Peter shrugged it off the way he always did - a little press of his mouth, a blink to dissuade saltwater’s tide, and he’d be fine. Something to toast later with his own bottle of ‘shine.

The scorch marks still lingered on the earth from the other night. Peter’s gaze, too, lingered on them - the bursts of charcoal across the ground that told all passersby that something  _ happened  _ there. Eddie  _ Brock  _ had happened there. Along with a few other choice customers.

He’d come down three nights ago to do as Tivan had asked him to - intercept a specific shipment while everyone else down there was distracted with  _ affairs that don’t concern you, Peter Quill, nor do they concern me. _ The night, inky black and void of stars in the murkiness of smog with distant storm on the horizon, hadn’t been nearly as forgiving as it was presently - the mugginess had persisted in a way that made it difficult to navigate - for the other Ravagers. Peter hadn’t told them to follow, they’d just...made up their mind to do so. There was always somethin’ to poke one’s nose into, Yondu figured - be it a shipment of their own expectations or somebody else’s left unguarded. As such, like silent locusts, the Ravagers descended upon the banks of the river by nightfall and began to pilfer odds and ends waiting for movement from sailors delayed by drink or folly.

_ I’m looking for something very special, _ Tivan told him. Peter could see the small not-smile on the side of his mouth in the low, reddish glow of the opium den.  _ Something nobody else has.  _

_ Well, sure, _ Peter’d told him blankly,  _ that’s - that’s kind of your thing, isn’t it? _ Mantis had giggled, which was really all that mattered to Peter, and he’d accepted Tivan’s long look of...well, he actually couldn’t get a read on what that expression was supposed to be. Whatever it was, it’d sent a shiver down his spine, and Peter had kept his mouth shut; trying to  _ listen  _ for a change, despite how hard it was.

_ I know your preference is to track the stars,  _ Tivan told him. The words buzzed in his ear as he walked from dark corner to pitch alley, the brightest point of light the faint wink of the revolver when Peter skirted out of the ray of passersby. Terry tugged close to his side, one hand on Clarice, Peter ensured he kept his two brightest lights right where they needed to be. He didn’t anticipate any trouble, but he’d be lying to himself even now if he said the Collector’s words didn’t leave something of a shiver permanently etched into his spine:

_ But this time I need you to bring me the Moon. _

There it had been, Peter reflected - the single, unassuming crate as tall as he was; but battered from travel. Hay leaked out of either side of the wood, protruding with exclamation marks against the milky white glow of a sleepy crescent peeping down from on high. 

_ In that box, _ Tivan told him,  _ you will find an idol. It will have the head of a bird, an arm upraised, and a draping cloak. With it may or may not be weapons; or jewels, or other odd treasures. You’re welcome to any of those. All I want is that statue. _

Peter could feel the weight of it now, pressing against him - a small figurine, nothing significant in size, perfect for a pocket deeper than it ought to be, sewn into the inside of his long rust-colored coat. The duster pulled tight against him as he stooped to secure the boxes; Kraglin and Yondu chatting as they moved with him. No one seemed to notice how quiet he was - though if they did, they didn’t say much aloud about it. A small mercy, to some, Peter was sure - his prattle, he’d been told [and it’d been called  _ prattle,  _ which made him sulk all the more], wasn’t always welcome. Especially when moving under the cover of darkness, when things were meant to be stealthy and svelte. Effortless. 

He was only really effortless when he danced, or when he shot. Loud, boisterous proclamations of  _ I’m here. Come and get me, boys.  _ Offset by the elements of surprise - a twirl here, a deadeye there. He was a marksman in the way he set a goal and stuck to it, fixed on the horizon line as nothing or no one else could be. 

Once Peter Quill was a man on a mission, nothing deterred him from it. That was why he’d been so quick to pry open the crate full of hay marked C-A-I-R-O [though he had to stand back to see all the letters as anything other than faded black smears]; faster than he’d been to grab goodies from other barrels and boxes like the rest of his crew that evening.

Inside, there were, in fact, a handful of weapons. Small things, like little quills from porcupines; larger items, like sickles and scythes. A great silvery staff that looked like a moonbeam. And the statuette that’d been requested of him, the bird-headed man with the upraised arm and the draping cloth. The cloak; all etched in marble with fading paint.

He’d pocketed the thing before the Ravagers had descended to scurry off with the other offerings, none the wiser. So what if there’d been a crater in the hay where the statue’d lain previously? Nobody else seemed to notice. He’d covered up by carrying a crate of rotgut bootleg, better than nothing. It jiggled and sloshed, loose in its container. Nothing to see here. Nobody cared.

And when Eddie Brock lit the rest of the world on fire, everybody was  _ definitely  _ focused elsewhere. There was a metamorphosis from locusts to moths as the Ravagers took off toward danger, hunting in a pack of one, moving to make sure it wasn’t their territory being threatened. It wasn’t - it was Fisk’s. And the moment that realization hit, every single one of them took off like wild things drawn to the scent of blood. 

Drawn in toward the vortex of flame, Peter had taken up the rear - the statue; strangely cold to the touch, banging against a holster as he strode along. One bottle lazily flew; thrown through the air, to burst overhead. Spreading the glow; burning holes through the blackness of the night. Peter smiled slightly to himself, footsteps swaying. Dancing; a little, maybe, from the success of something so easy. He’d done what’d been asked of him. He’d gotten what he came here for. The rest was havoc he was more than happy to wreak.

[ Music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VK6IeIj1LN8) guided his feet, casting him from side to side, swiveling on the scattered stones and dirty earth. 

And then that music quickened his pace to a trot. _ Di-ga-di-ga-do.  _ There were a few pops and  _ pings  _ as fire grew. Peter’s shadow silhouetted behind him; racing against time, over the ground. His feet hardly collided with the earth at all anymore - and he  _ vaulted _ across a barrel, sliding back upright, pivoting in place.  _ Bang. _ Another shower of glass, another bright burst. 

And then the dance became a full-out  _ run  _ when he saw, ignited by the columns of crackling fire, a familiar face. One he still owed a debt to. One that looked defiantly into the dark with a gun at the back of his head.

Peter didn’t even stop to see who’d been wielding it. It wouldn’t have mattered anyhow.

One arm rose and Clarice fired, the crate of remaining drink still tucked under his arm. James Wesley had dropped, a perfect, smoking hole in the center of his skull, and the Devil had descended amidst all the hellfire to help with the rest.

“Pete--” Yondu’s fingers snapped before his eyes, and Peter stirred out of the reflection of that night with a little intake of breath. “We’re gonna get these back to the club.” Yondu flashed him an odd look, then clapped a hand to his shoulder, giving him a little shake. “Stay’ere and make sure nothin’ else is comin’ in. I think they shorted us.” Peter gave a dazed nod, and Yondu hesitated - then withdrew his hand, whistling sharply for Kraglin and the others to get the cart moving on. 

Peter knew in the silent ways Yondu maneuvered - the hand staying put on his arm, the pause - he cared. He was asking if Peter was alright; their unspoken language of understanding one that Peter leaned into. When he had to. But right now, he had to deliver the goods to Tivan, get back to Eddie, and - 

_ Click. _

Out of the darkness, so soft and so sudden, the sound came without warning. It was followed by the cold brush of a muzzle behind his ear; the fatal kiss of Death waiting to take him. Peter’s heart leaped to his throat, and one hand dove under his coat to prepare - 

Only to find his arm wrenched from behind; a rough hand clutching his forearm. A gruff voice growled “ _ don’t _ ” in his ear, and Peter swallowed, clenching his teeth. Fingernails dug in, and the gun moved slightly lower - nesting against his neck.

“Peter Quill?” The voice asked; hoarse and low.

“Who’s asking?” Peter countered, and winced as his arm was twisted. “Ow - ow - okay. I prefer--”

“Star-Lord,” said the man behind him, thoroughly unamused. “Yeah. I’ve heard. Read about ya in the papers. Some shit about shinin’ like the boulevard downtown. Buncha crock, if y’ask me. Shit’s all the same.” The man leaned in, and Peter felt the hot breath ghost his ear; something of a hellhound set loose to sniff out his trail. 

“Rumor has it, too, that you took somethin’ that doesn’t belong to you.” The chill overrode the heat as goosebumps prickled down his spine. The hand under his jacket moved again, and the gun tensely prodded. “Ah-ah-ah-ah. None’a that shit or I’ll lay your ass out flat, pal.” Peter smoothly twirled the hand  _ not  _ currently occupied with the other man’s anger into the air, grimacing. 

“...That’s - you know what they say about rumors.” Peter’s eyes strained back, trying to find his assailant in the shadows. All he caught was a white wink of a vest; something ominous and glowing in so little light. There was a curl of a scarred upper lip.

“What do they say?” 

“Don’t believe everything you hear?” 

“And t’ey also say,” a wicked voice swept out of the shadows like a searchlight; searing and all-too-sweet, “‘whoever keeps his mout’ and his tongue keeps himself out of trouble.’ Proverbs.” 

There was a  _ blur  _ of ink as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen whipped out of the narrow alcove behind the two men and hit Peter’s attacker for all his worth. The gunman staggered back, pistol whipping toward the attacker - and Matt ducked, one leg lifting to ram into his opponent’s midsection. In the brief flash of a window nearby, Peter saw the white mark on his chest to be that of a skull; some pattern sewn into the vest he wore beneath his great black coat.

So - Death hadn’t been too far off from the truth, apparently.

“This how you wanna do this thing, Red?” The man on the ground panted as he lunged upright - two quick fists cuffing the air, rushing past the covered face of the Devil on either side. Peter, heart hammering, finally got Clarice and Terry out of their holsters ot aim at the first man - who promptly shot Terry clean out of Peter’s fingers with a  _ stinging  _ blow, the bootlegger yipping in surprise and clutching his wrist. 

“Motherfl--”

“He’s a thief and a criminal. Thought I’d heard a rumor you were ‘sposed to stop that kinda behavior,” the Skull man was saying. Peter, ducking back to grab his guns and create space between himself and the two of them, swiveled the pistols in either hand and circled away, eyes wide in the gloom. The Devil pressed his lips together and lunged for the Skull, fists curling into tighter wads of rage.

“Struck a nerve, huh?” The dark-haired man ducked away as a fist flew past his head - and in the opening, he struck true, one fist driving hard into the Devil’s sternum. Matt dropped back with a grunt, tongue darting across his lips before they curled back in a sneer. 

“Peter - go, get outtuv’ere.” 

“ _ Nah, _ stay,” drawled the newcomer, gun still clutched in the hand not currently trying to whallop Matt’s skull with a deft right hook. “You got somethin’ we want back-- _ oof. _ ” He dropped to a knee when Matt caught him in the ribs, but took the opportunity to pistol-whip the Devil in the process. Matt stumbled back; the crack of steel on bone sending a signal into the air both crimson and wet. Blood trickling out of his nose, the Devil sniffed back anger as Peter, panicking slightly, blurted out:

“I can’t - M--” He had to figure out a quick way to stop this. He was  _ wasting  _ time, and Eddie was injured back in the loft, and he still needed to get to Tivan, still needed to -- there wasn’t time for this -- 

“Eddie’s hurt,” Peter fumbled instinctively for something that felt right. This was it. “Eddie’s hurt, a-and --”

Strangely, that must’ve been all it took.

The stranger, still swinging for Matt, let out a snarl - then went down as Matt roared  _ back,  _ one fist slamming knuckles so hard against his jaw that; comically, the other man nearly turned all the way back around. The sound rang through the side street down to the water; ricocheting like a bullet - 

One that nearly caught Matt in the shoulder as he slapped the hand taking aim toward the sky - gripped it tight - and  _ wrenched,  _ disarming the bigger man with an easy clench of his digits. The dark man with the skull on his vest  _ bellowed  _ \- head ducking in to try and bash hard against Matt’s own. Lifting a foot, Matt cracked the bastard back against the ground so hard his head bounced off stones. Peter; agape, watched the quick exchange in shock, face a little heated, his own retrieved pistols clutched to his chest.

Matt kicked the other man’s gun away into the lapping river, and, with a swift swivel that followed through on the same movement, cleaned his clock and knocked him out. Dark eyes widened, then blinked shut as every bone in the attacker’s body went limp at once.

Breathing hard and heavy; lips bloody, knuckles the same - Matt ticked his head marginally Peter’s way, tongue once more dancing across the cut on the bottom half of his mouth. 

“Sweet Pete,” Peter said, apparently unaware of the irony in the statement. Little by little, however, that drew the unexpected out of the Devil’s face - 

A smile that curled; dyed red and deadly, so wide and so broad that it almost surpassed the covering of his mask. Hidden brows lifted, and, raising his chin, Matt motioned for Peter to go with a flick of his head.

“Get done what needs doin’. I’ll attend to t’e  _ leathcheann  _ back home.” Peter paused at that, and Matt faltered, too. 

“...back at yer place.” 

“M--”

“Don’t,” the Devil said flatly, hand lifting to point him off more directly. “Exit. Stage left. Go now. I’ll take care’uv t’is, t’en get to Brock. And Peter--” 

He glanced back mid-step, about to bolt again, the music long since gone from his head.

“...Don’t steal anyt’in’ t’at’ll get ye killed, would ye?” The world-weary note was met with a new day’s smile, and Peter made no promises as he took off into the darkness.

His only real regret was that he didn’t get to kiss his savior goodbye before he left.


	17. Get [Him] to the Church On Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ENTER A DIFFERENT MAN IN WHITE.

###  The man at the door was a vision in white.

Eddie thought at first that he and Matthew were to face off against a ghost - smaller than the two of them, but wiry and bouncing on his feet; all but vibrating like a fighter about to enter the ring. His clothes were all ivory, save for the vague strokes of rust spattered across his chest and neck. There was something unsettling about the beetle-bright darkness of his eyes; the flutter of which flitted between the two men in the apartment, the windows, and the walls.

_ Looking for other exits,  _ Eddie realized, and glanced up at Matt warily. The Devil was out; curling his hands into fists, dark scarf drawn across the majority of his face. Bruised knuckles swelled; tiny mountains of indigo and fading marigold; bruises pressed to the surface. 

The man smelled of sandalwood and blood - those were the first things that struck him; crackling in his senses. Under that, there were notes of cinnamon and clove, the streaks of alcohol that might as well have been straight ethanol - making his sightless eyes water beneath the cover of darkness. When the man walked, it was with a slight favor to his left leg, leaning just enough for the floorboards to sag slightly underfoot. He was littered with weapons, each shift of his body a chiming signal to Matt that spoke of  _ dagger at the hip, another strapped to the ankle, two guns tucked under his vest, a stiletto sewn into the sleeve of his shirt.  _ That shirt had its sleeves rolled up to the biceps; too, and through the currents of the air, Matt caught the aftermath of salt in sweat on his tongue; copper and something damply cold. Not quite like the river.

More like the  _ grave. _

“Who the hell’re you?” Eddie asked behind him, and Matt had to stifle the urge to knock him out himself. Reporters - always asking questions, always sticking their nose where it didn’t belong. And he was the worst of them by far. 

The figure at the door swayed a little - and even in the dark; even in the way his eyes glittered, it was evident that exhaustion was what made the drunken swivel of his frame, not alcohol he’d worked out hours ago. Chocolatey curls cascaded over his forehead with a shiver that was half-sigh, half-laugh. He was spectral and sinewy, an image of lines and angles forged from moonlight and shade.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. The voice was one of damp gravel and silt; wheels crushing stone. Matt tensed - he’d heard the voice before, a couple of times, speaking anything but English. Even now, the vague pings and pops of the consonants and vowels ricocheted between accents. “Where I come from, and where I am going. That is what matters now.”

A hand extended toward them in the vast empty space, impatiently beckoning. “I have come to have what’s mine returned to me.”

“...pretty sure we don’t have anything of yours,” Eddie remarked dryly. The hand that’d been outstretched closed and withdrew. There was a tense moment of silence before another sigh was issued:

“That  _ is  _ disappointing.”

In one swift movement, a knife was produced in either hand, and the door kicked shut behind the man in white. Matt swung out a hand to prevent Eddie from rising - not that he’d get very far, presently - before pacing out in front of the couch a bit more. There was something of a tiger in the telling of his footsteps; the near-soundless movement of his feet as the Devil sauntered further into frame. He set himself up between the man and the ghost who’d like to send him to his maker, head cocked to one side.

“What is it ye’re missin’?” Matthew tried cautiously. It was fruitless, though. He could taste the spike of adrenaline-fueled perspiration in the air, the quickening of the not-spirit’s heartbeat. When he moved, however, cold wind followed, curling across the floor. If Matt didn’t know better, he swore he could’ve heard dead leaves and the clicking claws of scurrying things. Rats, maybe. Wasn’t impossible to think they were in here with them, but -

Prior to this, Matt certainly hadn’t heard them. And he heard  _ everything. _

Like the slightest hitch of breath when the stranger who’d spilled over the threshold decided to move - swinging out of the way easily when one swing of an arm swept the dagger past his face. Black fabric fluttered as Matt ducked low and swept out a leg, the satisfying  _ crack  _ of the sole of his foot striking home. The man’d left himself open; haphazard and disoriented, and as a result, he was sent flying back toward the entrance whence he came.

“I don’t want t’fight ye,” Matt lied - already the blood was pounding in his own veins; the ire awakened and ready to strike while the wrath was still building. An engine gathering steam, he stalked after the man at the door and bared his teeth. On the couch, Eddie started to shift upright again, the burst of his own fear giving him enough energy to get up and move toward the kitchen.

“Then give me back what is rightfully mine,” the specter spat again, and, lunging upright off the floor, swatted -  _ one, two _ \- quick jabs at either side of Matt’s face. The Devil ducked away, blocked the second blow, and kicked outward again. 

“Can’t help ye if ye can’t use yer words,” Matt remarked dryly - before switching his stance to avoid the clobbering of head-to-head combat. The brown man in white growled softly.

“Khonshu.”

“Khon-who?” Eddie muttered, and unfortunately, drew the mad, dark stare of the man who was trying [unsuccessfully] to outmaneuver Matthew. 

“My name is Moon Knight,” the man said finally, his voice that much calmer than before. Matt kept his hands up, however, still creating a defensive, black-clad barricade between himself and Eddie. “And I serve the Holy Order of Khonshu.” There was a beat, and then he added, when no reaction seemed readily-made: “I am his Fist.”

Eddie, to his discredit, uttered a sound somewhere between a cough and a wheeze. Matt lowered his hands a little, mouth pressed into a hard, thin line.

“...The Fist of Khonshu.”

“That’s right,” rasped the newcomer.

Matt turned slightly toward Eddie and motioned with his head to the attacker in question, the Moon Knight - who, to Eddie, seemed more of a Night Hobo than anything else. But shabbiness of the all-white clothing aside, there was something distinctly...different about the madman. Almost as if the air around him was a little bit darker - the light in the room gravitating toward him directly otherwise. Emphasized by an outline of intenser shadows.

“You know anyt’in’ about t’is, Edward?” Eddie shot Matt a withering stare he knew was mostly lost on him; the use of his full name raising his hackles. But Matt hadn’t said his first and last name, he realized abruptly - nor had he used the preferred name.

Maybe there was something to be said of that.

“Never heard of it in my life,” Eddie replied slowly. “And I sure as hell don’t have anything of his. Or Khonchu’s.”

“Khonshu,” barked Moon Knight.

“Bless you,” said Eddie.

Matt  _ almost- _ smiled. 

It was short-lived, as Moon Knight turned in place to look back at the man in black more directly. “If you cannot give me what is mine,” he said flatly, “direct me instead next to Peter Quill.” The smirk slid off Matt’s face like rain along stone, the hard lines returning with a vengeance unmatched. 

“He’s not here,” Matthew said flatly - and Moon Knight gestured to the otherwise vacant room; devoid of human life save for that which intercepted him and the one leaning heavily on the kitchen counter. 

“No kidding,” Moon Knight remarked - and this time, lashing out more sharply; faster than before, he finally landed a blow properly against Matt’s chest. The foot slammed into his sternum to the point where he stumbled back and countered with a quick deflection for the followup, breath lodged and painful in his lungs which suddenly  _ burned. _ “So tell me where he is.”

“No,” Matt croaked, head spinning. For some reason, something odd had happened - he could usually tell when someone was winding up for a blow, but it’d been as if the man hadn’t moved of his own accord - the pulse was evening off, too, as was the adrenaline. He moved more like a machine, cool and insidious, oil in how slick he skimmed the surface of the floor. The flutter of breath that fell from his opponent’s mouth was followed by silence - 

For all he knew, he’d disappeared on the spot. 

“M--” Eddie started to speak, but Matt swept up a hand in his general direction - before dropping toward the floor just  _ barely  _ in time to avoid the roundhouse sweep of the other man’s leg. The air over Matt’s head sang with the near-miss, and up Matt shot; an arm lashing out with a clip from the flat of his hand, striking  _ hard  _ against Moon Knight’s jaw. He heard the satisfactory  _ crunch  _ of bone as a tooth broke in the mouth; followed by the rush of liquid copper that drooled between disintegrating porcelain. He bared his own fangs; so to speak, with the victory of that - then caught the fist flying his way, heel of his hand connecting next with the cartilage of the nose. He would  _ make  _ the sounds he needed in order to break this man; this intruder.

“Peter’s got naught t’do wit’ye,” Matt growled, “so I suggest ye cut yer losses and begone.”

“He has  _ everything  _ to do with me,” heaved Moon Knight - and, snapping a knee up, drove Matt’s body down across the bone with the force of a man splitting a board across his thigh. Matt felt his ribs whine in protest, and, whipping himself free, flung an elbow back against the Knight’s throat. He swung away; infuriatingly, and the two began to circle - maddening white and steadying shade. 

“Ask the stars why they steal from the moon,” hissed Moon Knight. “Ask the boy in over his head if he knows what he’s dealing with.”

As they spoke, exchanging blows and jabs, still twisting around one another like two serpents fighting for dominance in a pit, Eddie slipped a hand over the handle of a knife drying by the sink. It’d been there a while - who knows the last time Peter used it - and the hilt was battered from overuse. But the edge was still relatively sharp [in places] - and it would serve the purpose if-needed.

He wasn’t sure how much help he’d be, though - Eddie watched as the slap of hands ensued, the quick, darting effort of blow after blow caught and deflected. It was as if the Knight was moving in to mirror the way Matt maneuvered; catching and swinging and switching and twirling, a dance of dagger-point precision that hung on a thread.  _ Or was performed on the head of a pin, _ Eddie noted, watching the smaller, more dizzying steps taken in a minute swivel over the floor. Pirouetting toward the point of no return.

“M--” Catching  _ himself  _ this time, Eddie glanced down at the knife in his hand, then back at the two men engaged in a flurry of fists and flying legs. Back to the knife, Eddie turned the weapon around in his hands, and, inhaling sharply, landed on: “Devil? CATCH!”

The knife whipped through the air in an arc and Matt effortlessly snagged it from the darkness; handle-first, no less, leaving Eddie wide-eyed and awestruck in spite of the fear and the pain. The blade shone in his hand as Matt blocked another blow and rapped his skull against Moon Knight’s own. The white was getting well and truly tarnished now; vermillion by the man’s own make, human despite his spectral appearance. They snarled in the same breath, the dark and the light, as Matt pivoted the weapon till the blunt end struck bone - collapsing an already-hurting nose and wrenching a  _ howl  _ out of the other man fighting him on the splintering floor.

It was only then Eddie noticed the strange bastard was  _ barefoot. _ Right after the irritation spiked inside of him at the fact that Matt hadn’t used the knife to simply  _ stab  _ the man and move on. 

Seemingly unbothered by that [and his bare feet], however, the attacker leapt for Matt, legs wrapping around his neck in a movement Eddie’d never seen, not even in the wildest of street fights. He swung them both forward in a roll toward the broad, windowed wall and Matt struck the glass first, grimacing faintly. The resounding  _ crack  _ splintered the transparent material and spiderwebbed upward. Still bound by the oddly-cold limbs entwined around him, Matt surged back harder against the already-straining surface - and broke them both free, sending shards scattering across the small balcony overlooking the city.

Sounds rushed in; the whipping of winds and the flap of pigeon wings. Down below, the city roared. Lights buzzed, and people spoke. Matt endured it, endured all of it, one hand latching onto the throat of his opponent before throwing him off entirely, rolling backwards and up to his feet with a bounce, fists upraised again. 

Breathing raggedly, Moon Knight swung upright, eerily-precise, like a switchblade being flipped open, the posture mirroring Matt’s own once more. Tossing the knife aside -  _ why? _ Eddie screamed silently - Matt beckoned with both hands for the other man to come at him again.

Like a plume of blown smoke, Moon Knight descended, shooting toward Matt with both hands. Blocked,  _ struck,  _ blocked,  _ struck -  _ his knee snapped Matt’s chin up and Matt  _ snarled  _ around bloodied teeth; fit to match the menacing moon. The Devil took hold with a vengeance, and, with a great  _ smack  _ of movement, Matt drove the other man’s curly-haired head back against the granite spine of a gargoyle perched on the edge of the railing. 

He still squirmed, so Matt struck him again, driving home the stony vertebrate and all the fury he possessed. The hand that slapped at his face was limper, now, and Matt pulled the man in with a hiss of defiance:

“You keep Peter Quill’s name  _ out  _ of yer mout’. Ain’t not’in’ on t’is eart’ wort’ killin’ over.”  _ Doubtful, _ Eddie thought grimly - and all too suddenly, felt the weight of the chain around his neck again, buried deep. His heart twisted as he stumbled away from the counter a little, trying to better see the happenings on the balcony.

“You consider yourself a holy man, then,” remarked Moon Knight; his voice barely-audible now. Matt tensed at that, and the other man seemed to sense it, grinning a horrible, pomegranate-stained smile up at him. His breath was sour with the sentiments; dripping poison: “what does your g-d do when it comes to thieves?”

Matt seemed unlikely to answer - so the Devil stepped in, smooth and rich with a purr of molasses:

“Depends where t’ey hang.” And with very little care, saying thus, Matthew Murdock tipped Moon Knight over the edge of the balcony, the man in white tumbling off into the glittering darkness below with a short, sharp scream.

Eddie, forgetting entirely about his injury and his own weakness, rushed at once to the window where Matt stood, motionless - head ticked to the side as if listening. He knew Eddie couldn’t hear it, but there was a metallic  _ twang  _ below that satisfied him. Turning a little toward the apartment and the man within [whose fright had spiked considerably -  _ good _ \- since the choice the Devil’d just made], Matt waited. Just waited, to see what Eddie had to say.

“You just - you just killed him,” Eddie said, seeming to dismiss the fact that Matt had just made the conscious effort  _ not  _ to stab his foe with a kitchen knife. Matt cocked a brow under his coverings, and, with a little wicked grin, crooned back:

“Ah, no, he’s about t’ree stories below us, strung out on a flagpole. He’ll be just fine, if he’s careful.”

“Wh…” Eddie couldn’t conjure up the right words to dispel the static charge in the air, the electricity’s build suddenly beyond comprehension. It had followed them through the apartment, a riotous thunderhead of clambering limbs and blows exchanged in earnest. Matt felt it, too, running a live current under his skin.  _ The Devil felt satiated.  _ His job was to enact the balance of justice; and justice…

Justice said he didn’t have enough evidence, one way or another. But he’d be damned if he let Peter Quill come to harm over...a mistake. It was a mistake; surely, or something of a similar nature. True, he wasn’t always on the up and up, but…

Who and whatever that man was, he was far worse than Peter. Matt and the Devil shook hands on that much, at least.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Eddie said, suddenly closer - and Matt jolted back to the moment, one hand instinctively sliding up to wrap around the column of Eddie’s throat instead. The reporter froze; the twinge of agony sending an unexpected shiver through him. 

Deliberately slow, Matt walked him backwards into the apartment, stepping through the splinters of glass and fragments of wood. Eddie smelled like fear; still, adrenaline, too, and something that was almost smoky in its headiness. It was...a little brush with the intoxicating. Matt’s eyes fluttered behind the cover of darkness and his tongue dipped over the gash running through the middle of his mouth, pink lips pulled back in a soft sneer. 

With a generous squeeze to the other man’s throat, Matt muttered, “t’ere was no choice. He came in here, unprovoked, and now, he knows where Peter lives. If he  _ has  _ stolen from t’is man, he’s not safe. Need to get back to him, but…” The hand on Eddie’s throat eased enough to drift down to his collarbones instead, almost lovingly settling on the top of his chest. Heart hammering hard beneath the palm’s pressure, Eddie gazed at Matt anxiously, unsure of what else to do. Was he next to be tossed into the city’s abyss below?

“...Ye need sanctuary too,” Matt murmured, and Eddie blinked in disbelief. “Clinton Church. I’ll take ye.” The hand started to slide away, but Eddie caught the wrist. Matt started to snap back with the other hand, but hesitated. There was no cruelty in Eddie’s capture of his fingers, no twist or crush. Just...cradled. The way…

The way he’d done for Peter, almost, though these were coarser hands than even his own. There were cracks in them that water might run through, but they held him fast despite how he burned. The rage hadn’t settled, nor the unease. 

But in all of that resided; still, that faint hum of neon. It lit up his nerves as Eddie, little by little, drew one of the hands that’d fought to protect - Peter, he knew, primarily, but...perhaps a little himself - closer to him again.

“...thank you,” Eddie mumbled, and turned to press Matt’s fingers to the side of his face. Matt started in surprise at the scratch of stubble; the faint sheen of sweat, and the nicks or scars that lingered just along Eddie’s cheekbone. He was a cartography of little agonies; sleepless pains, and unsettled nerves. There was a wraithlike brush of breath against Matt’s palm, the same kind of breath a door takes when it swings open into an empty room.

_ Relief. _

Jerking his hand away before full lips could find his skin, Matt swung Eddie’s arm over his shoulders for extra support, already feeling the other man beginning to give again.

“Don’t t’ank me yet,” the Devil growled, the dark doorway beyond them yawning toward the treacherous stairs and the world below. “We’ve blocks t’walk before we reach t’e church. And t’en I’ve got to get Peter. Don’t know if t’is Knight is working alone. And I don’t know what’s been taken. T’ere’s too many variables. Just stay awake till we get t’ere, Eddie. Say yer prayers.”

“I don’t remember any,” came the pathetic response, and Matt, resisting the urge to retaliate with hellfire on his tongue, simply shut his mouth for a moment or two.

“T’en sing us a song,” he said finally. “Quietly, now. Carry us out. Keep yerself up. I’ll watch fer danger.”

“How?” Eddie asked weakly. “How do you do it, Matty?” The name brought a wave of softness to his face; trickling deep into his shoulders, down his neck, into every bone. It’d been what Eddie called him in the courts, back before...any of this, before they knew one another on either side of the wars in the roads and back alleys.

“...I don’t know,” Matt confessed, quieter than before. One foot found the stairs out of the apartment, then the other. “I couldn’t tell ye. But I do it anyway.”  _ Because I have to. _

“...okay,” Eddie sighed, fainter still. “Just - okay…” in a voice even rougher than his hands, but somehow no less sweet than the way he’d held Matt’s, Eddie sang them out into the night ahead, dark and grim as ever it was:

_ “This suspense, is killing' me... _

_ I can't stand, uncertainty... _

_ Tell me now, I've got to know... _

_ Whether you want me to stay or to go…” _

“T’at’s it, Eddie, t’at’s it…” It was far from a hymn, but Matt hadn’t expected that. He didn’t know what to expect from Eddie Brock.

All he knew now was the next holy mission - get him and Peter to Clinton, and from there…

Reluctantly, Matt had to admit to himself, he hadn’t the foggiest clue.


	18. Confessional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a little subterfuge, as a treat. there's a bit more to it than that, but I suppose you'll just have to see!  
> hello i'm back do not perceive my shameful return, i took a sliiiight hiatus for like. a month. good nite

###  “Why do we have to go to church again?”

Peter’s voice strayed just short of a whine, and Matt had to resist the urge to knock him out and carry him, too. Eddie wasn’t doing that great - already sagging in his arms as they made their way carefully through the damp streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The night air had a chill that promised more rain or frost was on the way, and neither were suitable weather for a man with a hole still healing in his chest. 

For lack of anything else to say, Matt simply replied: “ye need savin’. Bot’o’ ye.”

Peter made a face at that, hands digging into the pockets of his trenchcoat. Tivan had been more than enthused to receive his goods, at the very least. A little tribute to the temple of the inane or insane, he supposed -  _ this item could change the course of history. Now it’s here with me. _ Strange words from a strange man, and a strange look in Mantis’s eyes as Peter made his way out of the den into the dark. 

He’d been half-expecting the skull-man to return to finish what he started, but instead, Peter had found himself escorted by the Devil, ushered off into the night without any ado whatsoever. And by his side, the damned man, with his chest a little red and his face a bit ashen. Eddie was in need of repair, and quickly, but they had a bit of a walk left before them now. Peter slipped his other arm over his shoulders and stooped in an effort to lessen Matt’s load. The Devil sighed faintly, shifting to readjust to the change.

It had been fortuitous their paths crossed so Matthew didn’t have to double-back into the abyssal tangle of streets. All the lamps had been snuffed tonight, and he didn’t think that was coincidence. The only light sufficient to spill into the streets like the blood of ghosts was moonlight. Matt couldn’t see it, but he could feel the absence of heat from the street lamps; their flickering energy devoid in the void. There was something off about the whole thing that made him feel...strange.

“What was it ye stole, Peter?” 

“Nothing,” Peter said automatically. Matt clenched his jaw beneath his mask as Eddie’s head lolled forward, nearly stopping short to shift his look of disapproval Peter’s way. Brow furrowing, the lankier man looked left, checking the streets nearby - then swiveled back again, sighing. “Okay. Something.”

“T’at’s a start,” Matt muttered, head cocked at an angle. Two streets down, a woman was smoking on her back steps. There were two dogs by the garbage heaps fighting over fish bones. Three-day old fish bones, by the smell and the tension in the decay. Flies buzzed and the putrid remains of other people’s problems filled his nostrils. Matt snorted and coughed faintly, away from the other two men, and kept them all walking on-course. He knew the path well.

One might say he could walk it blindfolded, if they didn’t know any better.

“It was just some kind of little statue,” Peter kicked a pebble as they strode along - Eddie still slung over his shoulder and Matt’s, haphazardly strung between them. “An - Egyptian one.” 

“Makes sense.”

“Why’dya say that?” Peter furrowed his brow, gaze once again shifting around Eddie to peer at Matthew. The Devil’s lips twitched with a contemptuous curl, melodic voice murmuring:

“We were visited by a ghost. T’at’s why we’re off t’church. Yer place isn’t safe - t’ey’ll keep comin’ till t’ey find what’s t’eirs and take it back. Man wit’ t’e skull is Frank Castle. Ex-mob, freelance now, as far as I know. T’e man who came at us in yer apartment calls himself…” Disdain overrode any of Matthew’s previously-poised words. “ _ Moon Knight. _ ”

Peter held his breath. He looked skyward. He tried to remember what a serious situation they were all in. 

He failed miserably.

Laughter  _ exploded  _ out of him in a wheezy rush, and Matt went perfectly still, Eddie groaning faintly as he wobbled on his legs. One hand shot up to cover Peter’s face in the dark, hot, sticky breath against cooler palm. 

“ _ Moon  _ Knife?” Peter’s voice, muffled against Matt’s fingers, only made him giggle more. “If founds like I faid--” 

“Peter,  _ hush, _ ” Matt implored, furtively ticking his head to try and catch the sounds of the street they stood in. A dog barked in the distance, signaling nothing. The scampering of rats up drainpipes was unsettling, but standard. Somewhere off in the distance, however, there was a clink of a bottle. The hissing strike of a match, serpentine flames forking through the air. 

Something uneasy shivered down Matt’s spine, and, inhaling slowly, the Devil motioned with his head for Peter to pivot. They moved with as much fluidity as two men with dead weight between them could. Well, not-quite dead. Eddie was still with them, tenuous as that was. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and both men paused mid-step around a corner. Matt could feel the currents of the air moving around the steeple. They always diverged with the sick-sweet slick of the river behind them, the damp rot smell accompanied by that of old wood and wet stone. Bronze from the church bell, oxidizing in the exposed air. Like a bone going to gangrene. So he’d been told, at least once - with how the copper shifted to green.

He wondered if that was the color of either man’s eyes. 

It was an intrusive thought - one to derail him from the apology enough that Peter stepped in, bewildered.

“Sorry for  _ what? _ ”

“Feels like - you’d both be safer without me,” Eddie mumbled. Peter scoffed at that, and Matt gave a humorless laugh. Both men shook their heads with a sigh that was almost in-sync, shifting Eddie upright. They walked a few more steps and behind them, rain began to fall in earnest down the gutters of the alleyway.

“We-e-e-ll, I think we both know that’s not necessarily true,” Peter reasoned, face scrunching as he tipped his head back toward the rain. Pink tongue extending to catch some of the drops, he swung over the lip of the sidewalk without looking its way, hauling Matt and Eddie up after him. Matt moved with silent assurance, and, with their powers combined, both men were able to steer Eddie toward the church’s side door.

“Peter’s right. Time fer sorry’s long past anyway,” Matt noted. “Pray fer forgiveness instead. Ask fer penance.” 

“A gunshot to the chest ain’t enough?” groused Eddie, eyes narrowing. Matt performed one of his near-smiles and slipped them all in over the threshold into Clinton Church.

At this hour of night/early morning, the place was relatively barren. A few candles still glowed from recent passersby, prayers left to extinguish before the great cross and displays of Catholic holy consumption. A plate of bread and a cup of wine still sat on the altar, free for the taking. Peter eyed the display as they passed it from the back alcove, the sacristy silent behind them as the door swung loosely closed. 

They bypassed the pews, Matthew taking Peter and Eddie to one of two confessionals, the contained chamber of sin and justice an individual palace of mahogany and oak. Carved crosses caught in latticework made shadows and light work together to cast idyllic symbols across the floor. Wards, of a sort, against evil. And yet Eddie found himself in one, long past the point of changing his tune. 

He’d tried that, and look where it’d landed him. Perhaps it was fitting this might yet be his final stop.

“Who’s there?” The reedy voice of the priest came from beyond the walls of the confessional. Peter started to stand up - a little too tall for the booth, coincidentally - before Matt shoved him back down into the side opposite Eddie, quickly shutting both doors behind himself. 

“Hey,” Peter hissed, fingers curling on the mesh. Eddie smiled sluggishly in spite of himself, shaking his head.

“It’s not jail. You can bail out when the Devil’s done.” He could hear Matt’s voice in soft response through the door:  _ “we need needle and t’read, fat’er.” _

Peter swung back to look at Eddie worriedly, a glance flickering over his form. “Hurts worse than it actually is, pro’lly,” Eddie drawled, brows lifting in response to Peter’s silent concerns. The wheat-haired wanderer scooched on the bench, a little cramped, and peered at Eddie through the window between them. 

“I thought you’d be safe at my place,” he said after a moment, eyes dropping. “I’m - sorry, Eddie. It looks like I still owe you for the times you saved me.”

“Don’t owe me shit, pretty boy,” Eddie muttered, and Peter’s gaze launched itself back off the floor of the confession booth, pinpointing Eddie through the netting of crosses. Eddie flashed him a crooked smile that had every ounce of confidence he could muster up between the teeth. He oozed it, and even applied a wink to the gesture - an afterthought. Peter’s neck crawled with heat, and he glanced down at his hands, fidgeting a little.  _ Pretty boy. _

It seemed wrong to hear, here, though he didn’t know why. He’d never exactly been the church-going sort. His mother had always said church was nothing but a place for gossipers to flock to, and she had her eyes on bigger things - like living till tomorrow. Like looking up at the stars and teaching Peter their stories.  _ You’ve got your heart to guide you, Peter. Ain’t matter what anybody else say. _

So why did his heart hurt when Eddie said what he said? When he smiled like that? Or - not hurt, but…

His fingers fumbled for the little things he kept on his person always - photographs, faded, water-stained, but well-loved. They were safe in the inner lining of his coat, a pocket he’d clumsily sewn himself with the thickest of threads. He cradled that place for a second too long, as Eddie softly muttered,

“Peter?” Leafy eyes lifted anew and Eddie, wearing an expression of worry himself now, asked faintly, “still with me?” Peter nodded, opening his mouth to speak - 

But a shadow slipped into Eddie’s booth with a candle, a needle, and spool. Peter sat back to watch the process as Matt burned the point of the needle till it almost glowed, tugging Eddie’s shirt up to get at the offended, busted stitches. 

“Swear I cannae leave ye even to yer own devices,” Matthew muttered, and Eddie snorted, scowling a little.

“You were  _ there  _ and this still happened. You can’t save’m all.”

“Horseshit,” Matt said, and Eddie whistled faintly - before Matt drove an elbow [gently] against his mouth, hands busy with the undoing of bandages. 

“Ow.”

“Pipe down,” Matt muttered, and stuck the needle through Eddie’s flesh without warning. The reporter jolted somewhat, clenching his jaw, but to his credit, said nothing. A strangled breath later and he remembered to lower the hand that’d slapped against the ceiling of the confession booth. Blue eyes swam, finding Peter’s again, and the thief with the softest smile greeted him directly. A sympathetic little wince, and Eddie made a face back at him. They almost laughed. What else could they do?

“Ye’ll be good as new if ye stay here an’ stay quiet,” Matt said. Some of the bandages were beyond reuse, however - and, seeing no other option [he certainly wasn’t about to sully any of the sacrament cloths for this endeavor], Matt tore a length off the black mask wrapped around his face, securing it over Eddie’s chest. The stripe of shade laid against his heart, the streaks of blood beneath Matt’s fingers smeared like ashes on a holy Wednesday. Or over the doors of the Hebrews, or - like wine. His blood, wine-red in the candlelight and moonlight both. Matt tilted his head up from Eddie’s torso, listening to the slowing of his heart and the evening of his breath. 

There it was again, that sweet pull like something tempting - the freshness of a plum on a cart rolling past. Inviting Matthew to reach out and grab it. He could take it if he wanted. He could be gone in seconds, none the wiser, the taste still good and filling; satisfying, on his lips. He could chase that bliss in the burning glow. He could open the window and have Peter; too, an apple in another man’s orchard. The garden was where the snakes came in, how the Devil coaxed shame out of mankind.

It was that touchstone that drew him away at last, fingers sliding over Eddie’s shirt to drag it back down. Peter watched as Eddie leaned after Matt; a bullrush laid low by breezes, but the Devil disappeared from the booth entirely.

“Keep an eye on’im, Peter. I’ve got to see t’at t’e streets stay clear tonight. Keep problems from t’e church’s door. T’e good fat’er is here, just asleep in t’e parish adjacent.” Taking a breath, Matt slipped off to become one with the immersion of the church’s shadows. The places light couldn’t reach, like the richness of soil in Eden, swallowed him whole. Reclaiming their own.

In the silence that followed, Eddie caught the distant drip of rain off the gutters and gargoyles outside. His lips quirked and, head canting back, he exhaled - already his chest felt better, and, when his hand rested against the bench, it nudged a cup of water. Matt had left him flame and imbibement, and he hadn’t even realized. Candle and glass both glinted as Eddie raised the cup in a silent toast to Peter, who sat with his head against the confessional door, picking with a finger at the latticework.

“To your health, Peter Quill.” Peter blinked, head raising from the door, and laughed softly. An imaginary glass in his hand, he mimicked the motion.

“To yours, Eddie Brock.” A beat of silence passed as Eddie drained the glass despite how the effort burned in his chest, and, hissing through his teeth, set it down.

“Would’ve gladly taken gin over that, but...I suppose they don’t serve that swill in a church.”

“I think it was wine for Jesus, wasn’t it?” Peter teased, and Eddie chuckled - then winced, holding his chest. Peter inched forward on the seat again, and, with a quick hand, moved to open the window of the booth between them, arms folded on the little lip of wood, chin atop them. Now there were no barriers between them, and Eddie, shifting inward, matched Peter’s posture, looking back at him directly.

“Glad you didn’t die,” Peter said, with more sincerity than Eddie probably realized. That drew another snort of mirth out of the other man, and, after another little pause, Eddie shrugged his better shoulder, murmuring,

“Me too.” For once, he meant it. Survivor though he was, that was all it’d been for so long - surviving. Scraping by, playing both sides, making it work. He’d hustled for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to slow down. To slow down and consider the choices he’d made, like the ones that landed him here, looking back at Peter, who looked, for all the world, like he’d fallen out of the sky. His windswept hair, his sparkling eyes, his lopsided smile - all spoke of the things Eddie Brock had stopped looking for a long, long time ago.

To look up in New York was to so often look for trouble, but all Eddie wanted to do was bridge the distance between himself and the skyline and - tell him what it meant to see someone so carefree. So fearless. So without fetter; full of folly and the drink but moreover...hope. 

That was what Peter brought to the seedy city. Hope, from the rumors of his riotous dances to the way he could charm just about anyone - till he fumbled it and inevitably wound up with a gun aimed his way. Eddie’s smile softened.  _ Star-Lord. _ Named as such for so many reasons. But mostly because he just...shone. 

Even a blind man could see that, apparently.

The thought was a sobering one, but not enough to wipe the smile fully off Eddie’s face. His eyes dropped, searching Peter for signs of harm, and, finding none, he wanted to ask what had gone on in regards to his stolen item - what he knew, what he didn’t know. A thousand questions, sometimes the only way Eddie could form a conversation effectively - questions. Seeking answers. Wanting to know more. He wanted to know everything, always, at all times, but - 

“I’m glad,” he rushed out, more breath than actual words, “I’m...so glad you’re alright, Peter. I’m...so glad you’re  _ safe. _ ” There was a blink and a flutter of lashes before Peter cleared his throat. The only thing between them was a window, after all, and Eddie spoke that confession with reverence Peter wasn’t sure he deserved - especially not in a place like this, not to the man who’d nearly kicked the bucket for him on more than one occasion now. His thoughts disconnected, shooting off like fireworks in the night.  _ I’m so glad you’re safe. _

A hymn, just for him.

Peter’s smile wavered, but only because exhaustion and relief tugged on the edges - and because he came in through the window on the whimsy of a wind that moved him. Spirit; holy or liquor, he didn’t know, but it gave him the courage to close the distance again. His nose brushed Eddie’s and the other man dipped in to slot their mouths together as if they’d done it for decades, a faint “ _ mm _ ” following Eddie’s movement; both surprise and adoration. Peter felt...wanted. Like someone cared whether he lived or died, even as they themselves had bled and bruised already tonight. 

Inhaling slow through his nose, Peter shifted forward, nearly falling to the floor on weakening knees in the process, but - he caught his breath on another kiss and drew back only to nuzzle up to Eddie’s cheek, lips peppering across his jaw to his ear as the other man giggled -  _ giggled! _ \- the sweetest sound he’d yet heard tonight. Beaming, Peter whispered against Eddie’s ear:

“You  _ care  _ about me…”

‘’Course I do,” Eddie said automatically, voice hoarse and shaky. “Why wouldn’t I? Who wouldn’t? I mean -” Peter withdrew, and for a moment, fear flashed in Eddie’s eyes. 

But he only got up from his own seat to slink out of the booth, casting a quick glance around. The church was vacant. Two burning eyes in the form of altar candles remained. Peter hesitated not a second longer - flinging open Eddie’s side of the booth to slide in after him, forehead clonking the low-hanging entrance in the process before his foot caught the raised edge and he all but bowled them both over, door swinging shut behind them.

“You wanna know a secret?” Peter whispered, sprawled atop Eddie in the confessional.

“Is it how hard your head is?” Eddie asked in a strangled voice beneath his unlikely friend. Peter chortled, slithering upright at least enough to take pressure off Eddie’s healing wounds. 

“No - it’s…” Peter’s lashes and voice both lowered; dreamlike in their contentment. “I care about you, too, Eddie.” There was a flicker of a smile that only fanned itself into an ivory flame, and Eddie, face smudged with blood,  _ beamed  _ up at Peter in spite of it all. 

“Izzat a secret?” He teased, but his voice cracked - and Peter dipped back down to kiss the sounds out of his mouth, elbows on either side of Eddie’s head to keep from crushing him with all the emotions he had to express; no words, just actions. Just movement. 

And every note was heard and scored against the symphony of the streets, Matthew up on the steeple with his arm around the cross; the constant companion that counted his sins in cold metal lashes the days he passed beneath it. He could hear their laughter. Their treachery of the flesh. Every word was clear as the tolling of a bell.

But he had work to do. 

Let that sin be someone else’s, then. If that was the price, he’d pay it.

Bloody agony as much as it was, perhaps it saved Matt from himself in the long run.

That was what he’d tell himself tonight, at any rate. That was what he’d dwell on, as he drove his fists into the faces of his enemies, and kept safe the last light he knew for sure still shone in the city.

Even if it wasn’t his to see.


	19. You are far away and I am blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memory and guilt go hand-in-hand.

###  _ You are far away and I am blue… _

Distantly, the music faded out as the barracks shut down for the night. Their encampment wrapped itself in elusive silence interrupted only by the shivering of leaves beyond the confines of their makeshift home. 

“Richie?" Peter's scratchy voice floated through the blue ether of their quarters, the tent fluttering on the night breeze. "What'll you do when the war's over?"

Across the dirt floor, somewhere to the left, Rich Rider huffed a laugh, fingers shrugging to the canvas hanging overhead. 

“Take up sheep farming?” They shared a laugh together and Peter dug the heel of his hand into an eye, smiling faintly. “Honestly, Pete — haven’t thought about it all that much. I feel like...” Peter heard a rustle and rolled over, glancing Rich’s way more directly. In the dark, his friend [more than that, really] shifted onto his side to better see him, blue eyes agleam in the light of the moon. Rich had called him the sun before. Everyone else is just living in your light, Peter. Myself included. 

He never could see how bright he shone. 

“I feel like there’s always gonna be a war, Peter.” Rich’s voice stayed low, the lull in which they’d watched each other fading away like a sighing wave. 

Shoving the wool blanket aside, Peter swung his legs out over the floor, making quick work of closing the distance between himself and Rich. The other man froze, but settled as Peter wrapped his arms around him, nestling closer to the taller man. 

Nuzzling into the crook of Rich’s neck, Peter mumbled, “nah. Nah, Richie. You’ll see. They’re saying this is the war to end all wars. Once this is over, you and me — we’ll go home. We’ll start a sheep farm. Somewhere nice and big. Plenty of fields. I’ll...fix up motor cars. You can do whatever you want. You’re a hero. You’re gonna come out of this decorated and honored and stuff. You’ll see,” he repeated firmly. Rich said nothing for a moment, hand rising to cradle Peter’s arm against his chest. 

“Tell me about how we met again.”

“What, that old song?” Peter smiled against dark curls and kissed the back of Rich’s head, humming thoughtfully. “It was a couple years back now. You and I signing up for the fight. Same place. I wanted to fly. You already could. But how hard could it be, I figured? You made it look so effortless. Like you were born to do it...” Sighing, Peter kissed Rich’s shoulder, neck, and jaw — the other man stifling little snorts of laughter with each peck. 

“And I bounced up to you and I said—“

“‘Nice face, flyboy,’” they chorused together. Peter erupted into wheezy little giggles, Rich’s chuckles bolstering the humor. Someone else in the tent rolled over, and the two men went still, Peter’s arms tightening around Rich slightly. 

“I knew right then you’d drive me crazy,” Rich murmured after a moment, and a Peter beamed. 

“Turns out that just meant you loved me.” There was silence, and Peter sat up slightly to look down at Rich in the dark. “Richie?” 

_ You do love me, right? _

Blades of planes. Whirring. Turf being torn apart. Split and scorched earth. Mustard gas. Fire and Gatling rat-a-tat. Peter blinked and flinched, flinging back the covers to an empty bed. His feet hit the floor in boots and he rose with a wild glance around. 

Rich, standing on a hill, helmet in hand, was looking up at the sky. Peter, frantic, heart in his throat, started toward him. Mud clung and sucked at his legs, slowing his run. “Rich!”

The other man turned, the light gone from his faded blue eyes. Beyond him, a massive enemy plane roared to life across the ridge, blotting out the sky. The warmth bled out of the battlefield. 

“ _ I told you to wait for me _ ,” the ghost whispered —

And Peter shot awake in the pew, heart pounding, gasping in the rain of bullet-fire. Eddie, half-curled beside him, jolted awake likewise, grimacing faintly. One hand lowered to Peter’s chest in a groggy attempt to soothe, and Peter scrabbled to cling to it, holding fast. Overhead, pigeons flapped. The bells were softly tolling. Rain rolled off the roof and pattered through a hole near the threshold to the front of Clinton Church. 

Still clutching Eddie’s hand, Peter sank back against the pew, his eyes searching the gloomy periwinkle interior just before dawn. For something. Spirits, maybe. Guilty conscience. 

“Wha'time izzit?" He managed faintly. Eddie stifled a yawn in his free hand, mumbling:

“...morning. Early." 

"Six A.M.," the Devil said, and they both jumped, the man perched on the back of a pew above them. His head cocked to one side. "None of t'e men ye fear will bot'er ye now. I've made sure of it." Peter's eyes dropped to the raw knuckles that trembled, clutching the wood.

"Matt, your h--" He reached for the hands, only for Matt to pull away and slide to his feet.

"I'm fine," the Devil said shortly. "It's not'in'. Ye two should run along now."

It had been a long night for Matthew Murdock. Fighting his own war — personal and in the streets; battling himself and the foes of men. Their follies bled in the gutter; just short of their demise. He always knew when to stop hitting them. 

Sometimes he still went a little further. 

It had been a satisfying breaking of bones last night. Whether or not those who stalked the streets were after Peter and what he’d stolen or not, Matthew had made quick work of their dispatched bodies, descending from the rooftops and the alleyways to encourage unconscious drops to the drain. They flowed; his blows, like the rain — bringing Hell down in punches that drowned. His knuckles the beating waves. His fury that of the blazing sun on the sea. 

It was all he could do to wash away the sin. Body and blood. All of it into the gutter where he belonged. 

Envy swarmed under his skin, wanting nothing more than to tear itself free, hissing. Why did Eddie get to leave the gutter? He was worse than Matt, and yet — they were so much the same. Men of the physical means, angry and fighting. Contention in every corner of their existence. They boxed their way out when life boxed them in and the nastiness that came with that had no place with people such as Peter Quill. 

All this and more Matt had flung into his frenzy, and more of Fisk’s men and the gangs had gone down last night than he’d been able to take in months. All over some stupid artifact that attracted madmen and killers. Peter should’ve known better. No —

Matt’s hand tightened on the wood of the pew, coming back to reality. 

_ He should’ve known better.  _

“T’ere’s a call out fer ye, Peter. Some odd five thousand in exchange for whereabouts. Would suggest ye proceed wit’ caution for the next few days till t’ings die down. Is what ye stole somewhere safe?” Peter, who’d been murmuring to Eddie about something or another, perked up at that question. 

“Ah — yeah, actually. Safest place it could be, wiff—“ his words got muffled as Matt covered his mouth unexpectedly. Eddie tender beside him, but said nothing. Did nothing. Typical. 

“Don’t tell me,” Matt muttered, dropping his hand after a moment or so. “I’m better off not knowing.” 

“...alright. Well — there’s always some new drama anyhow,” Peter grumped, rubbing his mouth. Eddie snorted agreement, stooping over to pick his hat up off the floor. 

“It’s true,” Matt said calmly, hands tapping the oak of the pew as an afterthought — like the rap of a gavel in a courtroom. Shit. He was going to be late. Again. “T’ere’s a turf war expected between t’e Kitchen Irish an’ t’e Chinatown folk tomorrow night. Lest t’ey pull somet’in’ crazy an’ decide to jump t’e gun.” Matt’s mouth twisted. “Literally.”

“...thank you,” Peter said softly, drawing Matt’s attention away from his own wrath. “For — everything, Matty.”

Matt froze. 

It was the name Eddie had used to tease him in the courtroom. It was what Foggy called him when exasperated. And now —

God help him if Matt didn’t think Peter sounded reverent when he said it. 

“Just — stay out of trouble fer a spell,” he groused, already beginning to turn away. “T’at goes fer ye as well, Brock.”

“Matt—“ Eddie started to say — but the shadow that had formerly been both friend and foe became just that: a shadow, chased away by the rising of the sun. 

In the empty confines of Clinton Church, Eddie looked up at Peter, nonplussed. Sitting upright now, his golden hair on end, surrounded by the faintly lavender glow of the stained glass, he looked every inch a lost choir boy in his father’s coat. Eddie hasn’t noticed before, but the item was just a little too big on him. It was endearing. Everything about him was. 

Made the dark and dangerous night that much better, somehow. Made it all worth it to see his sleepy face staring down at him. After a moment or so, Eddie settled a hand on Peter’s thigh to hoist himself upright, eyes scanning his features. Scruffy exhaustion gave way to gentle understanding. 

“I guess he’s right — we can’t stay here.” Something in Peter’s voice sounded strange, but Eddie nodded nonetheless, beginning to clamber to his feet. 

“You can come stay with me? Lay low for a couple days like Matt said...” Peter hesitated as he rose beside Eddie, one hand reaching out to secure him; fingers catching his arm. 

“Y’mean it, Eddie...?” Eddie snagged Peter’s hand with a little squeeze before nodding, blue eyes flicking between Peter and the side door. The sun kept rising. People would be coming to church soon. They needed to move, anyway, regardless. 

“Ain’t fancy or big like yours but...what’s mine is yours and I’ll get ya food and shelter situated.” His gaze returned to Peter, and Eddie motioned with his head for the other to follow. “Whaddya say?”

Peter hesitated — turning back to look behind himself, as if Matt might yet manifest again to tell them what to do. He was at a loss, in over his head — and waiting was not his forte. 

“...okay.” He squeezed Eddie’s hand before releasing his fingers, nodding. One hand swept up his hat from the end of the pew, plunking it on his head. “Lead us on.”

Behind him as the church doors closed, Peter heard one last forlorn whisper: 

_ You said you’d wait for me, Peter.  _

He barely suppressed a shiver as the door swung shut behind them. 

The walk to Eddie’s was uneventful, if slow, due to the still-healing wounds — the hubbub of the street masked their departure efficiently, swept off into the fray of colors, scents, and sounds. Somewhere along the way; old habits refused to die hard, and Peter swiped an apple, two pears, and [somehow] an entire loaf of bread. Eddie could no more deter the man than he could the tide, so he didn’t bother trying. 

They discussed anything but the previous night’s events — Eddie pointed out the installment of a new statue in a square [“one of those founding father types; ugly bastard if you ask me”] and a crossing of ducks making their way toward the park. Peter watched with trepidation as the cars and carts nearly cost one a fowl bill, but there were no ill omens otherwise. They made it safely; the ducks and the wanted men. Eddie took Peter the three flights up to his apartment and tucked them both away. 

Peter found the whole place fascinating. Not much bigger than a cinderblock, the tenement home was covered with scattered clothes, dangling photographs clothes-pinned to a trailing line, and the scent of leather lingering with coffee. There was a half-made bed sagging into the floor, and the table was covered with papers and pens. Eddie hung his hat by the door, nodding for Peter to do the same. 

“Like I said, it ain’t much, but...” he watched as Peter bypassed the threshold entirely to turn in place, hazel eyes wide. He rushed immediately to the little kitchen area; not much more than a counter and a stove. On that counter sat the phonograph, and Peter eagerly glanced from Eddie to the music-maker. A rueful smile crossed Eddie’s face as he paced closer, picking up one of his few prized records from the box by the floor. 

“It’s wonderful, Eddie!” Peter exclaimed, watching the needle lower to the record. Ella Fitzgerald began to warble to life, spinning into existence to fill the yellowing walls with warmth unrelated to the sun or the hue. Peter breathed his first sigh of relief he’d had in hours, finally feeling something loosen in his chest. 

And then his hands sought Eddie’s again, earnestly pulling him in despite his laugh of bemusement. “Peter, what’re you...”

“Trust me,” Peter said sweetly, drawing Eddie close to twirl them slow and steady across the floor.They had time. To be alive; to [carefully] relish the good moments. They sashayed together as if they’d done so all their lives, and. Eddie stared up at the lanky thief, suddenly all too aware just how fast his heart had been stolen. 

And yet — maybe for both of them, maybe not, there was something nagging at them. It pulsed in a silent way; following the way Eddie’s heart skipped a beat as Peter’s nose brushed his. Peter studied Eddie with a squint as if trying to commit to eternal memory the laughter lines of his eyes and the shimmer of sapphire eyes. Different and darker than —

_ Wait for me... _

“Peter?” Eddie asked faintly. “Y’stopped dancing...” they stood in the space of the kitchen together, hand-in-hand, cheek-to-cheek, just about. Tongue scraping over the scar on his bottom lip, Peter mulled over what to say, but words —well, they weren’t his forte, either. 

Instead, he tipped his head down to kiss Eddie, to drive away the dreaming, to feel something real. The entire night’s ordeal; its uneasy anxiety, melted away between their lips. Eddie freed a hand to slide it up the side of Peter’s neck instead, drawing him closer. Every digit tugged and kneaded at the tangle of sandy hair, the shore to which the ocean of desire washed in. 

In the sunny haze of creaking record and fizzling music, they took their time. Safe in the light, they were guarded in the dark. 

Matt, perched outside the window, cocked his head as he heard Eddie slide to his knees like a man who’d finally learned to pray. He caught the rustle of clothes, the faint croak of  _ Eddie— _ ! Followed by a soft moan, the slick swallowing of salt and heat...

Forbidden things. The unholiest of pleasures. A sin that couldn’t be measured in Hail Marys or penance in the confessional. Matt couldn’t believe he’d done this to himself  _ twice _ . Perhaps this was how he saw fit to punish himself before God. To suffer the sounds of a passion he’d never know. 

His jaw set; Matt made his way back up to the roof in a ripple of black cloth, more determined than ever to disappear. Let them have their lives, then. Let them do as they pleased. He’d keep watch over them like they were just another part of his beloved, broken city. 

But as fate would have it, the Devil would always be drawn back to sin.


	20. You're always near to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little trip down memory lane.

###  As predicted, within days, the news of Peter’s bounty died down. 

The Ravagers kept their eye out for him, scoured the streets, even shook up their rival gangs for information — but the boy might as well have been made out of stardust for how fast he disappeared into the ether. 

Eddie made sure to make his home accommodating for Peter - as much as possible, anyway. The little cube of space wasn’t much more than heaped laundry and files stacked in systems only the man who owned the place seemed to understand. Peter, antsy as it was, did his best to stay put within the four small walls - but one could only pace so much; peering out the same teensy window.

The nights were easiest. Despite Autumn’s encroaching chill, Eddie would prop the window open, and they’d share a drink or a cigarette, or both, watching the stars come out above Queens. Peter told Eddie about constellations while Eddie wrote more on Peter’s skin - purple stars fading to yellow; drawn across a long line of skin just behind his ear, traipsing down his neck. A wish in every whispered affection, till Peter was nothing but giggles despite how tense things had been.

Nights were easy because Peter didn’t have to be alone.

He lay tangled up with Eddie, scrunched around him on the bed wedged into the corner, and Eddie held onto him with a gentleness Peter hadn’t expected, somehow, from a man of his size and his history. Coarse hands went soft around him; save for when they held him just tight enough. In all the right ways, Eddie just...knew him. Peter chalked it up to him doing his research, or something, at first - but there was more to it than that. More than he reckoned he’d understand in a lifetime, and yet - 

He needed air. He needed the city. He needed the lights and the skies and the booze with music. He itched to fire his guns; even just to practice, and he wanted nothing more than to run down the streets like he had just a week ago. While he still could, before the howling storms of the season came, and before the roads went slick with ice.

“Gotta head back to my place,” he said on the seventh day laying low - and Eddie, cocking a brow at Peter from over his papers, folded them up at once, rising to his feet.

“I’ll go with ya.”

“You really don’t--” Eddie cupped his face, and in an instant, Peter felt more delicate, somehow - as if that simple, tender touch made him vulnerable. Whittled him down to a minute thing; in need of being handled with care. Fragile and prone to fracture. But Eddie held him upright and kept him steady, even past the shake in his knees that intensified from the way Eddie’s eyes sought his; deep blue pools more stubborn than those he once knew. A long time ago.

But close enough still to his heart for it to  _ hurt. _

“I’ll go with ya, Peter,” Eddie told him, half-smiling. “Gotta make sure you’re alright.” 

Neither of them mentioned the Devil, though it gnawed at Peter something fierce in the shuffling silence that followed. Eddie packed up his things, intending to stay the night at Peter’s. They’d heard neither hide nor hair of Matt or anything of the Devil in over a week, and attempts to contact him, Eddie said, had been declined by Matt Murdock’s partner; Foggy Nelson. As such, they had nothing to go off of, and even less to pry about. 

But Eddie thought of Matt every time his chest twinged; or his fingers traced the scar that in time might not even be that - so clean and tidy the lines laid down to sew him closed. And Peter thought of Matt every time he got the itch to go outside - or when he lay awake after Eddie had nodded off, too restless to hold still. 

Something about Matt made Peter  _ feel  _ still in a way that didn’t make sense. He came in, fists blazing, in the midst of a fight, knocked them all out cold, and then - then -

Then, before he could disappear off into the darkness, Peter found himself holding onto the static between them. Like a record at the end of its play, like a dancer refusing to leave the floor at the end of a party. He didn’t want it to be over - 

And despite how little he’d seen of Matt or the Devil lately, something told Peter it was far from.

They made it to Peter’s apartment easily enough, and despite a door in need of repair, nothing in the apartment seemed to be missing or harmed otherwise. Eddie - with only a split second’s worth of hesitation - had chosen to swoop in and kiss his cheek before departing for the rest of the day. Work to be done; beats to hit, and what-have-you - vowing to be back by the evening, just like he always was, with a surprise in tow. 

The moment he left, Peter all but erupted out of his apartment, taking back out to the streets with a glee unrivaled - save for that of schoolchildren realizing they were done with classes for the day.

A wanderer was impossible to keep cooped up, and Peter made use of every minute of daylight while he could - catching up with those in the market who knew him by name and told him he was  _ too skinny, take this bread, too dirty - wash your face! -  _ and so on - a calamity of company; community, all-enveloping. New York welcomed him back like an old friend itself, and he was all but dancing through the sidestreets when he found himself hauled off by the collar of his coat. “Woof--”

“Pete,” Yondu snapped as he shoved the larger man against the dumpster, scowl on his face, “we been lookin’ all over for you! Where’ve you been hiding? I thought you was  _ dead,  _ boy.” Peter, sheepishly slithering upright with a scramble of long legs, proffered Yondu nothing more than an earnest shrug as he caught his breath, green-brown eyes bright beneath thatch hair loosed by all his running.

“Close enough, Yondu - say!” Peter clasped his hands to the other man’s arms, shaking them - getting him to let go in the process with a grunt of dismay. “That bounty on me still good?”

“It’s been called off,” Yondu muttered, a look of annoyance etched across his weathered features. “That’s why I’ve been tryin’a find ya. But shoot, you’re always wanted fer other things, ain’t ya, Pete?” The look Peter flashed Yondu was nothing short of saintly in its innocence, the taller man sidling away from the dumpster, hands dropping to Yondu’s shoulders.

“Oh, sure, but aren’t we all, and isn’t it nice to be wanted? Isn’t that what we all -” And he punctuated this by clenching his fist in theatrical intensity, “crave, at the end of everything? A little recognition, a little love, a little worth? How much was the bounty, anyway?”

“Somethin’ like $2,000,” Yondu said dryly. Peter’s brows shot skyward and his grin was positively  _ electrifying.  _

“Two...two  _ thou-- _ okay, well. You know what? I’ll take it. Why was it called off, anyhow?”

“Sounds like you weren’t really what they were all after,” Yondu grunted, shrugging his shoulders. “But that bein’ said, ‘spect you to show back up to work in the near future, ‘lest you want to catch hell from any of the other boys.” Peter tipped Yondu a mock-salute, then pivoted on his heel to prance off back into the street, relieved with his good fortune - all things considered, that all could’ve gone so,  _ so  _ much worse.

“Wouldn’t dream of slightin’ ya, Yondu! See you tomorrow!”

The only other thing to note was the midday paper that rolled out while Peter was stretching his legs. He caught one by means of convenience off the back of a wagon, unfurling the item to find  _ ‘GLADIATOR’ BESTED - COMBAT AGAINST TANKS NELSON & MURDOCK RESULTING IN DEFEAT.  _ With a picture of the lawyer himself -  _ that _ lawyer - motioning in the courtroom, partner proudly standing by his side as a massive man was escorted out of the courtroom in handcuffs; forlorn expression on his long face.

The name on the article was one he didn’t recognize - not Eddie, but someone by the name of K. PAGE, no indicator of contact otherwise. Then again, Peter usually read the Bugle, whereas this one seemed to be a rag entitled the Bulletin. B-names only in this town, apparently. 

He kept the paper nonetheless; relieved to see that the man who was sometimes a Devil seemed to be doing just fine. 

Peter just wished he knew  _ why  _ that realization hit him as hard as it did - or why it was followed up by something like disappointment. 

The feeling had faded by suppertime, when Eddie returned, windswept and triumphant, a sack of groceries in his arms; mischief in his eyes. Ingredients for leek and potato soup with a small roast beef went well with the crusty bread Peter’d been gifted, and the hearty meal staved off the increasing drops in temperatures - felt more readily in the drafty old nook Peter called his own. Eddie’d even fixed the door to the best of his abilities once the soup was simmering; but still the icy winds persisted - as if the heavens themselves were trying to pull them on into the atmosphere.

“Heard about Matty?” Peter’d asked Eddie after a while - who’d nearly choked on the black coffee he’d made off the woodstove, which crackled and sang to further dismiss the chill in the air. 

“Ah - Matthew?” Peter smirked at him knowingly over his bowl of broth, and Eddie shrugged, tugging on an ear, gaze cast down toward the floor. “Yeah, more or less - wasn’t really followin’ the arms-dealin’ case. Been a little preoccupied with, uh…” His fingers crept across his sternum almost absently; and Peter followed the motion with his eyes, hungrier for that mere gesture than for his second bowl of soup - he’d eaten faster than he should’ve, no doubt, and was currently fighting off hiccups.

But some things, like affection, a man could always be hungry for. Especially a man like Peter Quill, whose wild travels often found him so restless. Seeking things he had no names for, places that warmed the bits of his spirit gone cold in the absence of... _ something. _

“Matters of the heart,” Eddie finished quietly - and Peter’s gaze lifted from where Eddie’d rested his hand against the healing wound, instead focusing on his face with a brightness in his eyes. Eddie’d managed a faint half-smile under a handful of sandy scruff, and Peter melted in his seat a bit, bowl landing on the table.

“...Y’wanna clean dinner up later?” He asked; smile shy, but earnest in the way an eyetooth poked out over his bottom lip. Laughter lines webbed the corner of either eye, and Eddie nodded, coffee cup lowering as he rose.

“I think you mean  _ you  _ wanna clean dinner up later?  _ I  _ cooked,” Eddie teased, and Peter laughed - the release of tension, the lifting of spirits, the raising of invisible glasses in a toast of celebration. They lived, and in their lives, that alone was enough reason to rejoice. 

“Of course, of course - I just figured, seeing as I’ve got a bounty on my--”

“Nice try,” Eddie huffed, and swung Peter around by the waist to pull him towards the sofa, half-waltzing, half-stumbling before the two of them crashed onto the sagging furniture, enveloped by all its lumpy softness. Grin on his face, Eddie paused for the briefest of moments to study Peter - before proceeding to shower him with bristly kisses, nuzzling into the side of his face. “But I know it’s been lifted.”

“There goes my free pass,” Peter groaned - wriggling with delight under the barrage of affections.  _ Rat-a-tat-tat, _ came the rain of smooches, and Peter let himself be riddled by them, a fond sigh caught between his teeth.

The talks about what they did were - nonexistent, though Eddie’d tried numerous times to work his courage up to discuss them. It was easier for Peter to indulge in action, rather than to dwell on emotion - on words. He was a man of deeds, and Eddie was one of words - plus, Peter found if he kissed Eddie enough, it hardly mattered.

And  _ stars,  _ it’d been so long since he’d had someone to kiss like  _ this. _

His mouth parted in an eager sigh as Eddie’s nose nudged his own, giggles captured in the way their mouths collided. Eddie’s hands clumsily tousled his golden hair,  _ golden boy,  _ he’d whispered into his neck more than one night, like he couldn’t get enough - like Peter was an apple from Eden or that of Idunn, or something mythic - not one to sow discord, but oh, how lovingly bright had been the disruption to Eddie’s dark life…

“You shine so magnificently, baby doll,” Eddie was saying even now, and Peter preened, head tilting back so Eddie could smatter his neck with fresh pleasure, mumbling almost all but lost to the peaks of his throat, “feel so good - so glad you’re safe, so glad...you exist…” his words trailed off, and the necking slowed, Peter’s fingers kneading Eddie’s shoulders as the other man shifted upright, carefully withdrawing - picking something up from the sofa cushions with a mild-mannered frown.

“Pete -” 

“Mmhmm,” Peter murmured, teeth catching on one of Eddie’s stuck-out ears. The reporter emitted a noise that didn’t necessarily decline the motion, but tried to stabilize, clearing his throat.

“Peter - ah - sorry, I think y’mighta dropped this…”

At once, greenish eyes shot open, and Peter nearly knocked Eddie off the couch outright with the force in which he jackknifed upright. One hand snatched - gently - the piece of faded paper in Eddie’s fingers. Peter looked down at the man squinting into the long-lost sun, arm crooked on the side of his plane, then pressed the image to his chest, eyes stinging unexpectedly.  _ Shit. _

“Sorry,” Eddie said softly, pressing one more tender kiss to the side of Peter’s head. The other man flinched, but settled back, tugging the photo away from his breast to study it once more. With a watery expression, Peter pressed a kiss of his own to the image - only lightly - before laying it aside, not far away at all. On the skinny side-table, leaning just a bit too far to the left, face-up, it waited. Eddie stroked Peter’s face with a couple fingers, then sighed, shifting back - till Peter pulled him down, burying his face against Eddie’s shoulder.

All the good warmth and ruckus of his first day out in a week evaporated. But he clung to what he could anyway; the fumes of coffee and soup and all things comforting. Eddie, after only a beat, wound his arms around Peter, hugging him close.

“...baby,” Eddie said, the word still strange, yet so  _ right  _ in his mouth when it came to Peter, soft as ever: “were you in the war?” 

There was the smallest of nods, and a near-ashamed “...yeah” that followed. It hurt worse than a bullet to the chest. Eddie kissed Peter’s crown, eyes cinching shut. He held him like he could shelter him from all the falling bombs whistling by in memory alone. A shuddering sigh, a squeeze, and a murmured,

“So was I.” That was what he had to offer. Then - “you ever wanna talk about it, or...anyone you knew in it…” his gaze traveled to the photograph and back again.

“I’m here,” he said, for whatever it was worth. “I’m here, an’I’ll always listen to you, Pete.”

Wordless, Peter reached back to the table after taking a second to sniff back his tears, pulling the photograph into place between them. They broke apart enough to examine it together. On the front; in glossy black-and-white, a little water-stained, was a man so classically handsome he damn near hurt to behold. 

Dark curls in a tumble on his brow, rumpled by the wind, his uniform a little haphazard, but no less pristine, somehow. A crooked tug to his mouth that begged the question  _ why?,  _ aimed at the photographer; no doubt. Peter inhaled slowly, then uttered a shaky laugh. The photograph flipped over, and on the back, in tidy scrawl, were the words:  _ all my love x. _

Eddie took the photo once offered - Peter nodding encouragement - with the utmost care, barely seeming to touch it, so light were his fingers - and he lingered on the face of the man in that photo for a good while before he handed it back to Peter. When he spoke next, his voice was worn as leather: "he was  _ beautiful _ ."

Peter, even with tears in his eyes, smiled just a little as he took back the picture, allowing himself to look at Rich’s face for just a moment longer.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally, before turning the image over and resting it back on the table beside them, “he was.”

Eddie’s hand finally stilled from where it’d been stroking Peter’s hair, and he pressed another, softer kiss to Peter’s temple. They shifted back as one to lay beneath the stars above in the quiet for as long as they both needed. Eddie kept his hand curled around Peter’s head, thumb caressing his temple - just letting him have his grief. Not alone, even in the isolation grief brought to him. Even in all the pain it wrought - Peter knew, in that moment, fragile as it was, that he was not alone.

And the relief that came from that, alongside despair, felt...better, somehow. Eddie hadn’t pushed him away, or rejected him. Shy though he was when it came to affection, he had multitudes to give - and Peter, grateful for even the simple way Eddie held him now in the darkness, let himself have it all. He let himself feel, before he decided to try and run again.

“...what’d you do, Eddie?” His pulse ticked as Eddie turned his way, nose brushing nose. Peter looked him over, all the lines a little bit more weary, a little more aged. “In the war, I mean. What’d...if you wanna say…”

Peter asked him that and Eddie was so, so quiet and still for a long enough moment. Long enough just about to make one think he’s fallen asleep, but eventually...he raised his hand to run his fingers through Peter’s hair again, and answered him. Honest as anyone like him could be: “I was a spy, Stardust. Behind enemy lines.” His smile was hollow as his chest felt.

  
  


“Learned the language and everything.”

Peter, uncharacteristic, but strangely still again - still in a way that was different than the stillness that came from the Devil - stayed quiet for a long moment, just feeling Eddie’s touch, before rolling his eyes up at him to ask another question when it all became too much: “s’that why you’re so good at talkin’?” 

Eddie wanted to smile, because it was  _ so  _ sweet; because Peter was  _ such  _ a  _ darling _ , but the fingers still trailing through Peter’s hair started to tremble a little. And it was all he could do not to sink into that shaky place before it all went dark. Till he lost sight of the stars like the night the gunfire got him all too good. When his head went funny. When it all went to shit. 

So instead, Eddie kept it together as best he could, joking back around the marbles rolling around in a mouth muddied by exhaustion, “nah. But that’s what got me the gig to begin with. Runnin’ my mouth.” And he kissed Peter on the nose, trying to keep the prickling malaise at bay. 

Peter could tell he was shaking, and his own heart felt  _ so  _ heavy - so he rolled around to lay on top of Eddie, holding him tight as he buried his face in the other man’s neck. “...I was a pilot,” he offered after a while, quiet as the moment seemed to want to be, “obviously.”

Eddie felt the trembling start to persist - until Peter was suddenly everywhere, and under that gentle pressure, he untensed, hands lifting to wrap around Peter’s back. Slow circles followed, the gravity of everything pulling him in. He was a planet circling Peter Quill, arcing to the rays of his sunshine.

“Obviously,” Eddie said back at long last, lips pressed against Peter’s ear, gentle and warm. “Suits you. How’d you get up there in that big ol’ sky?” 

“With a plane, silly,” Peter said back with a little shake of a chuckle, then settled anew. “Just...always knew I belonged up there.” Their eyes lifted to the cloudy horizon beyond the panes of glass, and Eddie’s arms tightened on Peter instinctively. As if to keep him from floating away again entirely. 

“Oh, of course. I thought maybe someone so cherubic might just have wings.” He kissed the side of Peter’s face he could reach, eyes drifting shut. Every beat of hearts between them was a soothing one. A reminder. Heavy as it all was, they were here. They had each other. And they had a sky full of stars. “I can see that about you,” he continued at a rasp, hesitance only brief: “do you wanna tell me about him?”

Peter smiled a little, then scooted down to lay on Eddie’s chest instead. Clever hands drew lazy circles on his arm with a finger, moving to a rhythm of their own creation.

“His name was Richard..Rider. Rich. I called him  _ Richie _ . He  _ hated  _ it.” The smallest amused huff. “We were co-pilots...we were...more...than that.” Peter’s throat closed up slightly with a little click, and he blinked back dampness again. Eddie wrapped an arm around Peter to keep him close, his breathing slowing as the weight of Peter continued to keep him grounded. He’d do the same for him.

“He must’ve been really somethin’.  _ Richie _ . Good name.” He didn’t want to pick more at it; ask what happened. He can read between the lines. But he left space for Peter to speak if he wanted to. Always would. It was his nature.

And he could’ve listened to Peter  _ forever _ .

“He was the best...” Peter’s voice was raw and scratchy with emotion, and a single tear slipped down to Eddie’s chest. “Shoulda been me, not him...” He found Eddie’s hand, entwining their fingers. “But I’m…” Licking his lips, Peter brought another smile to light - defiant against dark places; dense memories, rough terrain or turbulent skies. “Glad to be here. With  _ you _ .”

Eddie's eyes, weary as they were, found themselves back on the stars peering down at them through the glass, and his heart was heavy for Peter. Heavy for his loss, heavy that someone this good, this kind, this  _ joyful  _ \- ever had to experience a war. 

And the man of many words silently made another stupid promise: that Peter would  _ never  _ grieve like this again, never suffer another  _ war _ , not if Eddie is there to stop it.  _ As if one man can stop a flood, as if a single person can prevent contention between nations _ , his mind reprimanded his heart nastily. 

But Peter's words pulled him back down, and he squeezed his hand, letting Peter know he was still there. 

And he said, deliberate and calm, before his mind could stop his mouth and soul [and indeed the heart surviving despite life’s many attempts to the contrary: "I love you, Peter." 

Peter froze, heart skipping a beat, eyes wide. Eddie pulled his hand up to kiss his knuckles, voice finally fracturing a little: "I  _ love  _ you, and you did everythin' you could, alright? 'm glad we both made it. We're here. We have here and now." And he looked down from the sky to the sun in his arms. Meeting a disbelieving stare full of confused tears.

"We got each other. And we got another chance, now, don't we.” 

The dam broke.

Peter kept crying, tears coming swift and sure now. Quiet except for his sniffles and little chokes, until he managed to murmur back, shocking even himself - “I love you, too, Eddie.” The reporter’s face splintered into shock of its own, faith rattled, so sure rejection was to follow - and beyond the blurring of blue eyes, he followed Peter’s motion again, staring up at the sky. Together, they watched the stars.

Peter gazed into the heavens as if searching for answers. Calm settled in the many-eyed lights beyond the panes, settling around him in an embrace. There was a reason Peter wanted a home where he could see them. His stars. His skies. His horizon of infinite possibilities.

Maybe - maybe forgiveness was up there. Second chances were up there. The only thing he knew for certain was - 

“Rich is up there, somewhere.... lookin’ down on us. I just know it.”

Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of his head after a pause and said softly, "he surely is." Because if nothing else, the way Peter said it made him believe it.

Everything Peter had to say made a believer out of Eddie Brock.

Even in the matters of love.

Their night had wound down after that - Eddie’s exhaustion outweighed his ability to stay upright a moment longer, and he’d ended up passed out beneath Peter less than an hour later. That was alright by him, though - with Eddie close, it was easy to feel rested. 

But it still nagged at him that something was missing. Little by little, Peter’s respite gave way to the pacing again, sliding free of Eddie and the sofa to wander onto the balcony instead, overlooking the sparkling city trying to outshine the heavens themselves. New York’s dwindling chorus of cacophony spoke of a morning to come. A future - and somewhere, out there, a man who he still owed so much thanks to. A man he couldn’t stop thinking about. A man who - 

“Hello, Peter.”

Was  _ sitting  _ right beside him, crouched on the granite edge of the balcony. Peter stifled a sound in his throat, cigarette a comet dropping somewhere down below. Wide eyes fixed on the Devil in his dark attire, and, inhaling sharply, Peter coughed smoke out of the side of his mouth before managing to drum up a response.

“You - hey! Hey, I thought...we’d seen the last’a you, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you went, I just…” his smile was crooked. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you.  _ Again. _ Properly. So - “ Awkward, all of a sudden, Peter placed clammy hands on the edge of his perch, rocking forward. The Devil tensed instinctively, as if preparing to intercept the boy who couldn’t hold still, dark mask covering the majority of his unease. Peter’s smile softened, and, sucking his bottom lip under his teeth, he shrugged, shaking his head. “Y’gonna sit up there all night or can you come down and just exist for a while?”

Reluctantly, after a long and  _ judgmental  _ moment, the Devil obliged - sliding down off the railing and joining Peter where he stood beneath the light of the moon and all its domain; minions of a sparkling make like so many champagne dots in the sky. He shimmered with them, excited all over again - cathartic was the meal and the day and the love, but his heart felt its fullest yet when Matthew decided to stay. 

The way he made Peter feel like - he could, too. Like he could hold still, just for a few seconds, before the tug of his own forces sent him spinning off into the atmosphere. 

“It wasn’t somet’in’ I wouldn’t do fer someone else,” the Devil said stiffly - and, scoffing, Peter reached out to gently tug the mask up despite Matt’s instinctive protest. The black bandana, shoved to the top of his head, left a startled expression beneath it, freckles spilling under eyes that blinked and saw naught but the shade. 

“Don’t be daft. You and I both know that’s not true. So I just - thought I’d say as much. It meant the world to me, and to Eddie, and--” Peter saw something of the startled shyness escape; Matt’s face closing harsher than if he’d jammed the scarf back down over it.  _ O-kay. _ “...you just - you’re a hero. You  _ saved  _ us, Matty.”

“It’s -” Torn between refuting the nickname and deflecting the praise, Matt sighed through his teeth. “It wasn’t - fine. Ye’re welcome, I suppose.” Peter tittered, lighter than he had been in hours - and Matt, unable to help himself, lost the fight against the way his mouth curved at the corner from the force of Peter’s joy.

“See? Was that so dang difficult,” Peter teased, arms folding on the side of the balcony. Matt, grinding his teeth as the smile ebbed and faded, shrugged his brows, moving a little bit closer despite his inclination not to. 

“Yes,” he said dryly - and Peter smirked, shifting straighter on his feet with a little jostle of his shoulders. Underneath his elbow, the railing scuffed. 

“That’s just because you’re used to winning,” he jabbed lightly - and Matt scoffed, the laughter almost outright this time. It was a strange reminder of how much he’d  _ missed  _ Peter, in the short while he’d kept his distance. He’d been on the other end of the city tonight, just about - as far from him as he could possibly get. 

But he’d finally caved, decided to check in. Once more, before dawn, like almost always. 

And Matt was...very glad he had.

“You’re so used to winning that y--” Peter slipped, elbow catching as part of the stone crumbled beneath its lichen and gave way. Matt instantly shot in to catch him around the middle, heaving him back away from the edge. Hearts hammering together, Matt and Peter stood frozen, the latter leaning over a little to see the slip of stone spiral off into the darkness below - the former counting the seconds he knew he had before the rock hit the concrete with a clattering crash. Somewhere, dogs howled. A cat yowled. Someone swore and spat. A woman muttered a prayer, crossing herself. Her heels clacked away down a sidestreet.

“..see,” Peter pointed out breathlessly, coming back to reality safe in Matt’s arms, “thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it,” Matt said, tone slightly dazed. This close, he could practically live in Peter’s skin from the way the sweat, the leek, the leather, and everything else all crowded for his attention, clashing and cascading over his senses. Pink tongue dove over curved lips as he managed a little laugh. “Now - go back inside. Away from t’is mess. It’s not stable.”

“I know,” Peter said faintly; yet closer. Matt smoothed a hand over his arm, then touched his face - an instinct, trying to check for injury, making sure he was alright. He felt lashes flutter against his skin before Peter twisted in place, one hand rising to clasp his own. Matt froze completely; the searing emblem of affection burned into his palm by Peter’s lips, so blessedly soft and miraculously sweet.  _ Underserved.  _ Perverse. Not  _ allowed  _ to the likes of him.

“But you saved me again,” Peter whispered into his skin, “please let me do the same sometime, or...or else I’ll - I’ll…” unable to come up with the words; the threat, the vow, the promise,  _ whatever  _ was trying to rend out of him at  _ once,  _ all Peter could think was that he didn’t want another moment in his life where the things; the  _ people  _ he cared about - were out of his reach.

Without another attempt, Peter moved past the hand pressed against his lips to plaster a kiss to Matthew’s mouth instead, one hand dropping to claw him closer by the small of his back. 

Matt gasped; the rigidity bucking him back to life as if telling him to push Peter away, but - he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to. Every ounce of fight left him in an instant as the sweet thief who stole everything - even the air from his lungs and his faith’s scorn. 

How could hate be found in a moment like this?

And he did let himself have a moment; Matt did - he clung to Peter, hands still shakily ensuring he stayed put - his lips parting to match the passion brought by the other. When Peter’s tongue sought his, Matt moaned, reverence unrivaled - 

The shame of which peeled him away, one hand pressed to Peter’s chest.

“Can’t,” he whispered, face burning. “I - Peter, we can’t - do t’is, it’s - wrong.”

“...I know,” Peter said, “I know you - you think that, but Matt…” he tried to catch Matt’s hand as the other man pulled away, “Matty,  _ please _ \--”

“Ye can’t save me t’is way, Peter,” Matt said quietly, one hand on the raised edge of the railing. Peter reached for him, he could feel the way he moved in the dark, trying to hold onto some piece of it.  _ Him. _ Matt’s smile twisted, more sob made flesh than anything else - a gargoyle’s grimace, not a man’s at all. A monster.

_ Just a demon. _

“I’m already damned,” Matt said, and plunged off into the city, Peter scrambling to the stronger side of the balcony to see him scurry off below, a black blur on a gutter, a pipe, a flagpole. His hand closed on the air, and Peter swallowed the taste of Scotch and spices still lingering on his tongue.

Part of Peter’s heart sank like the stone, like the Devil, to the depths of the coal-black sea that was a city of concrete, asphalt, and neon glow. The rest of his heart was sleeping on the sofa; a photo on a table. Memories. Good things. They, too, had saved him.

And all Peter could think as he sagged back to his sanctuary beneath the stars was how priceless it’d be if they could all come together. In one place; at one time, despite all the baggage.

What could be worth more than  _ that? _


	21. Toast to a New Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie wears Matt down.

###  “Fancy seeing you here.”

Matt’s fist collided a little more sharply with the sandbag than he’d originally intended. The item swayed, threatening to drop entirely, and, with a leathery creak, straightened back out. The pendulum, halted by his hand on its side, proved a grounding force as he caught is breath - and, in the process, the whiff of gin and bourbon; salt, cigarettes, black coffee, leather, and sweat.  _ Brock. _

Nose crinkling for more reasons than smell alone, Matt swung his fist up under the bag again, resuming his routine. “T’at makes one’uv us.”

“Oh, he’s funny, now,” Eddie drawled, as if nothing had changed between them. Arms on the ropes, chin atop his arms, he watched the lawyer work out his demons on the dark sack, eyes narrowed. “That a new development?”

“I’ve always been funny,” Matt shot back coolly, “ye just don’t have the right sense’uv humor.” The ground shifted as Matt felt Eddie climb up into the ring between the ropes yet again - as he had before. “Or common sense, for that matter.”

“See, that one I find funny,” Eddie chuckled, bouncing on his feet. He shimmied out of his coat and hat, flinging them haphazardly over the side of the ring Matt occupied. Still dutifully trying to ignore him, the quarry in question continued his onslaught - a barrage of fisticuffs against an unseen enemy. The invisible foe. If he imagined anything, it was justice being done. No face beneath his fists. He didn’t need details.

He just needed an outlet.

“Why’re ye here?” Matt asked wearily when he caught a second to rest. Eddie, pacing back and forth behind him during his ritual, shrugged, spilling more of that strangely all-encompassing scent into the air. It blanketed the gym in a cloying containment, stifling his senses. Too close, too pent-up - too tempting. Matt worked his jaw. He’d gone without since the kiss - three days ago. Celibacy by choice. Away from sin. Away from... _ this. _ Whatever it was.

“For you, of course,” Eddie said dryly. “Do you think I come here for the scenery?” Matt’s lips pressed together. “Look,” Eddie reasoned, “things ain’t good between us. I get that. But -” It was only then that he struggled.

“I - never got a chance to say thank you,” he said finally. “So I want to. Right here, right now.”

“Ye’re welcome,” Matt said automatically. The night a few evenings prior flashed through his mind.  _ You saved me. _ Raising his brows and his voice, Matt motioned toward the door between punches. “Now - ye’ve said yer piece, jog on.” Eddie frowned.

“You don’t -  _ get it _ , Matt, it’s not just - one and done, I feel like I owe you for a lot.”

“Ye don’t, so get t’at clean outtuv yer head, Brock.”

There was blessed silence again as Eddie found himself boxed into a corner by Matt’s words. The man was ruthless when it came to deflection, at his worst [re: most vicious] on the courtroom floor. It was one thing to hit a man with your fists; wearing some kind of getup fit for an opera. It was another entirely to watch a man be reduced to pieces by the tone of another man’s voice, or the words he chose to inflict as weapons. Eddie had suffered more than his fair share of each element of agony, however - which was perhaps why he felt it was in his best interests to push forward.

He also didn’t know when to quit, so there was that.

“Look,” Eddie said, loudly - as if to dispel the thoughts clamoring around for attention in his head, “we ain’t ever gonna see eye to eye -  _ metaphorically speaking, _ ” he tacked on; annoyed, when he saw the flash of Matt’s sneer appear between blows. “But I’d like for us to at least be...friendly with one another.”

“Why?” Matt asked, breath ragged from the incessant wailing on the bag. Eddie’s eyes shifted across his shoulders; his back, the way Matt swung in like a man hammering the railroad. Contemptuous against his enemy, the iron rod. The sandbag. Whatever it was, he was angry - angry in everything he did, and Eddie knew that much. He was angry, too. More so by the day.

“Because -” Eddie shifted forward a few steps to linger by the punching bag, speaking to Matt directly - even if his eyes didn’t focus on Eddie; even if he hit the bag ever harder in close proximity to the reporter in question. Eddie, to his credit, didn’t flinch - merely studied Matt in the dim light with a tired eye. “We were friends. At some point.”

“Ye call swoopin’ in like a vulture on every one’uv my trials friendship? Oh, Eddie,” Matt clicked his tongue, face scrunching. “Ye really should reevaluate what t’at means.” 

“For the record,” Eddie said, refusing to rise to the ire that swelled between them, “I enjoyed watching you work. I like the way you can lead a room’s emotions around the ring like a circus. I like the way you sound when you go in for the kill. And I like the way you handle justice. With a tight grip and a direct path. You’re...unstoppable, Matt.” Even as he spoke, Eddie watched his hands slow their tirade against the punching bag. His eyes lifted from the swollen knuckles kissed purple by violence. They lingered somewhere along the sharp lines of Matt’s face, offset by dark hair and fervent dew.

Eddie straightened up where he was, one hand slowing the wavering bag’s back-and-forth. Stillness settled upon them like a late-Autumn snow; where the trembling breath rustled like leaves until it, too, evened out. Matt’s jaw set, and, for a long moment, he stubbornly refused to break the silence.

“I wanna go back to how it was. But I wanna do better. I wanna - give you any information I have, I’m tired...tired of tryin’ to play both sides, because I can’t, I can’t anymore. And Hell, it may not even be safe for me to keep skulkin’ around like I do, but...I have to try. And when I do, I wanna try for you.” Eddie filled in the blanks when the mute room became too much, never one to let things go without noise for too long. Matt turned his way slightly, brow furrowing.

“...Ye t’ink t’at’ll make it right, t’en? You turnin’ a new leaf? Fer what - fer  _ me? _ ” The incredulous statement was amplified by a scoff and shake of his head, Matt beginning to adjust the wrapping on his hands. 

“Yes. For you. And  _ not _ just for you.” The movement stopped, and Matt cocked his head, a little flicker of tongue shifting over his lip. Waiting. “For Peter, too.” 

_ There it was. _

Ugly as opening a pit of hissing snakes, Matt felt his stomach churn. The wretched, oily feeling of jealousy spilled through his system, turning his blood to coal as it roared through the furnace of his heart. His knee-jerk reaction was to ram his knuckles into the nose he knew was mere inches away, but he refrained - instead taking the very deepest of breaths. Like a bellows. His teeth clicked together, anvils and hammers.

“...Good fer ye, sweetheart,” Matt said, almost-saccharine. “It seems ye’ve really got a good t’ing goin’ fer ye, don’t ye? Couple’uv  _ confirmed bachelors  _ bumming around.” Eddie flinched at that as if struck, and Matt wished he could’ve felt more satisfied by that. As it stood, all he felt was slightly nauseous. Like he’d let the venom of all those serpents seep into his veins.

“I know how you feel about him.” 

Where Matt had snakes, Eddie had dogs - barking in the back of his throat, threatening to break their chains. The words were growled, though the threat was nonexistent. It was a statement of fact. Matt’s smile froze to his face; frosted. Gilded with pain. 

“I know it. I’ve seen how you are around him. Around  _ us. _ Don’t bother to deny it. You’re a terrible liar,” Eddie pressed on. “You’ve got like...four tells that I know of. Your brow - “ Matt jerked back as Eddie tapped his forehead, fists upraised. Now  _ those  _ were a threat. Eddie fanned his hands, but stepped inward. Still going. “Crinkles when you’re really hamming it up. You’ve got a tic in your jaw when you disagree with something. You drag your tongue over your bottom lip when you’re thinking hard on what to say, and…” Eddie brought a hand up to shove Matt’s shoulder.

“Your nose flares when you’re only lookin’ for a fight.”

“Stop it, Eddie,” Matt cautioned, heart in his throat. Eddie persisted, shoving him again. 

“And I know that no matter how much you tell yourself it’s because I’m a bad man that you keep your distance, the truth is, we’re more alike, and you  _ hate  _ that. You have that we have the same rage. The same desire to fix the city. The same idea, but different methods. The only difference between you and me, Matt? The only  _ real  _ difference?” He was inches away now. Coffee and cigarette stench rolled in waves, practically smoglike. 

“You wear a mask,” Eddie informed him, “and I bare my face. And you think that makes you better than me?”

“Ye - ye confer with criminals. Ye break bread wit’ t’e likes’uv Wilson Fisk,” Matt countered, hands still upraised. Eddie laughed - soft and ugly.

“I’ve never even met the man. I was working my way up to it - till the docks. Now I want nothin’ to do with it. And I won’t get the chance. Wesley wasn’t the only man there that night who belonged to the Kingpin. They  _ all do, _ Matt - that’s the thing. There’s not a damn gang in this town that  _ isn’t  _ connected to him, somehow. He’s got them all. And the only reason I’m alive to say that is because you and Peter saved my  _ worthless  _ life, so  _ please  _ -” Matt seized up with a startled bristle as Eddie’s hands found his face, pleading. They were clammy and hot; almost feverish, clasping him close. His pulse was an erratic, staccato melody played off by the bass in his chest, the thump of which was nothing short of agonized. If Matt didn’t know any better, he’d swear the man had just been in the fight of his life.

“Please,” Eddie whispered, still holding Matt’s face, “please let me say thank you.”

Matt started to shy back and squirm free, though he didn’t make it far. Eddie had a grip on him like tongs; like a vice. Like a man clinging to life. This close, too, Matt could taste the swell of chemicals between them. The rush of adrenaline and pheromones, crashing across the fragile airspace between them. Like bombs dropping, so Eddie fell to kiss him - for the second time in their time together in the gym. Matt’s hands twitched -  _ fight  _ \- and wrapped around Eddie’s wrists. He could feel the pulse slow beneath the pads of his fingers, veins coursing. Rivers to a sea he’d never seen. He’d only heard it.

He heard it now, Matt  _ tasted  _ it now, moving between his lips with a current of electricity. The slip of tongue made his knees slightly weak, the hands sliding up into his sweat-damp hair more so. For a moment, just one little moment, because of all that melded between them, because of all the murkiness of their breath; their  _ lives _ \- 

Matt succumbed to temptation.

The thought occurred as Eddie dipped back to catch his breath, their lips still close, and Matt felt reality kick back in with the force of a runaway mule. His hand swung up and - mulelike in its force - he socked Eddie just under the ribs, thrusting him back against the punching bag but a few feet away.

“Don’t touch me,” Matt told him, as he’d told him before. There was less conviction this time, however - more wrath; instead. Eddie, struggling to catch his breath, flailed a hand out in front of him, staving Matt off. “T’ank me by stayin’ t’e Hell away from me. And from Peter, if ye know what’s good fer’im. Because it’s not ye.” Matt inhaled, and, as if this was a court case, as if it was  _ case closed,  _ he dismissed him: “it’ll never be ye.”

For a moment, Eddie; doubled-over, still clasping his middle, debated fighting back. He wanted to deny the condemnation, to fire off accusations of his own. He wanted the throw-down, knockout fight that came from this kind of fire. He wanted to taste blood, and he wanted to drown it all in liquor after. Outside, the wind picked up and made the raggedy building quake around them. The shaking persisted - somewhere in his hands, under the skin, in his bones. He was facing judgment of a different kind. Soon enough, Eddie had no doubt, divine trial would come for them all.

All that mattered while he was still here on Earth was trying to leave it better than he’d entered it. He was more than the lives he’d taken, more than the sins he’d committed. Eddie’s only hope was that someday, he could prove that. Someday, before he had no more days, Eddie hoped to be a good man.

“You’re right,” he settled for finally. Matt, toweling his face as if the whole thing hadn’t just happened, paused by the corner of the ring. His head cocked, brow furrowing a little. Not for a lie, but for confusion’s sake. 

“What?”

“You’re right,” Eddie said again, hauling himself upright and deliberately inhaling. His whole chest ached, but he let it - lingering on the sensation as if it in itself was a friend to lean on. Pain he understood, pain he was used to. Yet another similarity he and Matt both shared, at the end of it all. 

“He deserves better. It’s true. I’m not good. I’m not decent. That hasn’t changed in the course of this short while. But if I can still try - don’t I deserve the opportunity to do so? Can’t I attempt betterness? To heal, rather than hurt?” 

“‘One pain is lessened by anot’er's anguish’,” Matt muttered. The old creed rose to the surface; unbidden. A little thing he’d skimmed with his fingers long ago, it seemed, now. He drew in a breath to deflect Eddie, but stopped at the sound of a smooth finish:

“‘Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain.’” Somehow - and this was becoming a frequent mantra when it came to Eddie Brock - Matt hadn’t expected that. 

“Shakespeare,” he noted, nodding.

“Like you’re the only one who reads, Murdock,” Eddie countered, and, in spite of his black and envious nature, Matt laughed - startled in spite of himself. Twice in two goes. The track record was not in his favor.

“...T’is can’t continue,” Matt said finally; softer. He was exhausted now; far from something to hit, closer to retiring for the night. An hour for supper. The rest for the city till he had to sleep. A few moments, here or there, for respite. But the schedule had to be kept, and he had to keep his city. “But I...could be open t’yer partnership, Eddie. In matters’uv information. Fer t’e Devil,” Matt added. “T’e lawyer and ye - not so much.” The budding smile, pruned to death, faded from Eddie’s lips. He dropped his gaze to the mat beneath his feet and exhaled, hand stroking his stomach.

“...You don’t have to be the Devil all the time, you know.”

“...I  _ am  _ the Devil all the time,” Matt snipped back, though with fewer barbs than before. Eddie sighed through his teeth. 

“You think if that were the case, you’d care a little bit less about certain things.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Never mind,” Eddie hastened, hands upheld again. Kisses, violence, chaos - that was their world. The conversations still needed to go back to the way they once were. But - Matt had opened the door again. Despite all odds, there was an opportunity, now.

As for Peter, well - 

“Let me get you a drink on the way home,” Eddie said quietly. Suddenly. Matt hesitated, halfway out of the ring already. “Let me get the Devil a drink, then, for fuck’s sake.” At that, the ghost of a smile crossed Matt’s lips, one hand sliding his glasses back on. A shield against being scrutinized too closely. A mask in their own right. 

The whole night felt like a surreal fever dream. The rain persisted outside, restlessly tapping. 

“...One drink,” Matt allowed, “fer t’e Devil.”  _ What’s one more sin? _ He’d bleed it out later. One gang member. One fight. That was all he needed. If it hurt, it was a Hail Mary.  _ And it would suffice. _

“Toast to a new alliance, then,” Eddie agreed, and ducked out of the ring after Matt - relieved that things seemed, for better or for worse, to be taking some kind of turn. The conversation wasn’t over. Their journey continued, and Eddie - well.

Eddie felt  _ elated _ by the prospect.

However unexpected, however messy he was, as always - Eddie Brock would see the road through to its bloody end.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this series is ongoing! And my dear friend CineQueen and I brainstormed this concept into being, so credit goes to her as well.


End file.
